


















































































































RANSOM 


I 


» 


RANSOM 


BY 

ANTHONY RICHARDSON 




/ 


U I never knew anybody . . . who has not had 
to ransom himself out of the hands of Fate with 
the payment of some dearest treasure or other." 

Thackeray — Pendennis, vol. ii. 



BOSTON 

SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 

\ 1 ~ 





Copyright, 1925 

By SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 

(Incorporated) 



f, 


Printed in the United States of America 


THE MURRAY PRINTING COMPANY 

CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 

THE BOSTON BOOKBINDING COMPANY 
CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 


ML -2 1925 s 

©C1AS55753 



TO 

MY WIFE 




CONTENTS 


FACE 


I. Illusion. 3 

“ I am become a fool in glorying . . 

II. The House in Fulham Square . 105 

“ I will make you brooches and toys for 
your delight.” 

III. Interlude. 189 

“ Narrow is the gate that leadeth . . . 
unto life.” 

IV. Reality. 205 

“ . . . that which thou sowest is not 
quickened except it die.” 















I 

ILLUSION 

“ I am become a fool in glorying . . 












RANSOM 


CHAPTER I 

He entered the town from the north. It had been 
characteristic of him to step from the car four miles 
out, where the road crested the Barbary Ridge, and 
to choose to walk the rest of the way, sending Sophie 
on alone. He was not quite sure how this return 
would affect him. That was strange, because there 
were few things of which James Brockenholt was 
not certain. He had left the Four Mile Clump on 
his left, and on his right the downs fell away to a 
distant haze of trees embroidering the gaunt hunch 
of Martinsell. The wide lands were curiously still, 
varnished with the late sun, the air cupped golden 
in the little valleys expectant for night’s release. 
The old road! The ring of his footsteps over the 
flint was a half-forgotten rhythm swaying through 
his brain. Twenty years ago! Well, it was a long 
time, when you came to think about it. Yet it 
seemed only yesterday that he’d made way over 
the downs on an evening just as this, running 
against the wind, knees bared, head down, panting 
in desperation because he must get back in time 
for Call. “ Sweating ” they’d call it. Running over 
this forsaken country-side for the good of your soul, 
so you could stomach forty minutes each way in 
3 


4 


RANSOM 


House Matches. How vivid his memory seemed 
all of a sudden. He was glad Sophie wasn’t with 
him. They hadn’t taught him much in the school. 
He could see now the red buildings and the chapel’s 
tender spire lifting into the golden air. No, they 
hadn’t taught him much, except — hardness. That 
was something. Almost everything. Now, he was 
coming back for the first time in twenty years. 
They knew he was coming too. His was the re¬ 
turn he desired. Sophie had always said his soul 
was made of red carpet. “ In that event,” he’d 
told her, “yours is generally post-dated.” That 
reminded him, Sophie would have to throttle Carlo 
down a bit if she was still hankering after Paris 
in the spring. Nevertheless, he hadn’t come down 
to the old school for her edification and he was going 
to enjoy himself. She’d have to behave. 

The street was practically deserted. The grey 
houses slept either side of the tilted road. He 
stopped by the town hall to indulge his memory. 
He hadn’t meant to feel like this, but now, amid 
the half-forgotten surroundings, it seemed inevi¬ 
table. Yes, there was Tucker’s — same old name, 
same old shop: probably the same old buns, the 
ones with cream wedged in, that oozed out when 
you bit them, the sort you’d eaten on those days 
just before lunch — generally with two bars of 
chocolate. That made him laugh. Buns and 
chocolate! Half a crown a week was a fortune 
then. At the far end of the street he could see the 
twisted lane that ran up to the College. Turner’s 
Lane! Every day for those three years when he’d 
been at the school he’d swaggered down that cob¬ 
bled road, hands deep in his pockets, coat behind 


RANSOM 


5 


his arms. Even then he’d been a “ blood.” The 
smudge of grey hair over his temples and the lines 
cutting into his cheeks, running from eye-corner 
to mouth-corner, were the only additions to James 
Brockenholt at thirty-eight to the Black Brockenholt 
of eighteen with the towering height of him and 
sombre eyes. A grim kind of boy, dark and wilful 
and very proud, now, a monstrous sort of man. 
It made him smile to think how they’d hated him 
at the school: feared him. Now they were going 
to welcome him back, bend the knee to him, salute 
him with smooth sweet phrases. Twenty years ago! 
I can see myself, he thought, coming down this 
road. I can smell that old indescribable smell of 
the town. Even the air has scent of vivid recol¬ 
lection. It’s ridiculous of course, but somehow, 
I know chapel bell will go in a minute and I’ll 
have to run like hell to get through Gates. The 
empty street was full of memories. A black-coated, 
capped crowd of them tramped the pavements. 
They swayed past him, boys. The place was alive 
with them. Hundreds and hundreds, till the sound 
of their imagined steps and laughter and earnest 
chatter tugged at his memory. Against his will, he 
saw himself amongst them, walked that ghostly 
walk with them, slipped back down the years till 
he was eighteen again, quick as flame, on the 
threshold. He wasn’t accustomed to think like 
this. It was the sort of thing he’d disciplined him¬ 
self to avoid. There was nothing satisfactory in 
probing beneath the surface of things: he’d realized 
that long ago. Only now, for once indulging him¬ 
self, he felt again that dull ache deep inside, as 
if some creature of pain gnawed at his entrails. 


6 


RANSOM 


It wasn’t all my fault, he thought; I didn’t want 
it that way. They made me hate them, because 
they hated me. He’d discovered at the school that 
element of his personality that had nearly always 
engendered fear in his companions, had developed 
it, learnt the use of it. It had been an asset. It 
had brought the thousands to him. 

But, standing at the corner, the ghosts of his 
unhappy boyhood appeared more real than himself, 
than Sophie. He fought against the seething armies 
of them that thronged about him. He tried to 
thrust them away from him, knowing only too 
well what past bitterness they would bring for his 
torment. The years fell from him like leaves; he 
was here again, living through the intolerable ache 
of that time. Brockenholt of thirty-eight was for 
three minutes Brockenholt of eighteen. He saw 
himself, as it were, acting again that dismal part, 
and in the moment that joy and anguish filled him, 
even as it had done twenty years before. ... He was 
walking down the street, proud and very bold, 
the recipient of admiring glances from the smaller 
boys, of envy from his equals. He walked by 
himself, conscious of his splendid isolation, of his 
position, because every one knew what a devil of 
a chap he was. He was the only one of them who 
had the guts! Moreover, there was a warm glow 
all through him. He was a Cesare Borgia, a Romeo, 
a buck. . . . How they hated his fine bravado, 
his bold appearance. “ That’s ‘ Black Brocken¬ 
holt,’ ” this from tremulous new boys passing by. 
How envious they were! And then, and then . . . 
that other morning after he’d been caught! God, 
but it had been hard to look as if he didn’t care, 


RANSOM 


7 


didn’t want their sympathy. They’d delivered his 
luggage at the station. It was midterm. Nobody 
else was going away, only he was leaving. He’d 
told them all he didn’t care. He’d laughed their 
shy sympathy away. That had been the only thing 
to do — to laugh! But he had cared, he was caring 
now. No one had seen him off: that would have 
brought dishonour to some one. He was branded. 
Those sneering masters had scorched that name of 
ignominy on him. Every one knew. Every one 
felt ashamed of him in a sneaking way, when they 
would have done the same thing themselves — if 
they’d had the guts! He was striding out of the 
town with his head very high and his eyes very 
fierce to keep the shameful tears back. He wasn’t 
taking any notice of the cruel inquisitive glances, 
of the frightened smiles of pity. He was going up 
the Station Road, taking his ticket, getting into the 
empty carriage, watching the buildings sweep across 
the window, and seeing far off the fist of Four 
Mile Clump thrusting from the downs, receding, 
receding ... he was leaving, never coming back 
... he was crying in a hard rasping way, sitting 
upright, his hands cold and loose by his sides, cry¬ 
ing bitterly for them to take him back, to give 
him another chance. 

The sight of his car across the road brought him 
back to himself. Well, it was his innings now. 
What a fool he was making of himself, what a 
sentimental fool. It was funny! He shrugged 
his shoulders, and at the laughter against himself 
the memories died. He crossed the road to the 
Marlton Arms. His chauffeur met him on the steps, 
and touching his cap: 


8 


RANSOM 


“ Everything’s in order, sir.” 

“ Mr. Maude arrived?” 

“ Not that I know of, sir.” 

“ Miss Wontner inside?” 

“ Yessir.” 

He went in. The hotel had a queer fusty smell, 
repellent at first, but curiously suggestive of age. 
There were rusty velvet curtains across the hall. 
The wall-paper was yellow-grey, and above his head 
a gas flare spurted a ragged flame. He noticed the 
brasswork was bright and well kept. A door to 
his right bore the faded token “ Coffee Room.” 
Ahead he could see a regiment of shining bottles 
topping the bar-counter. There was a subdued 
murmur of voices in the house, overhead a bump¬ 
ing of luggage, orders being given, running foot¬ 
steps. From behind the curtain the landlord 
emerged, a short pumpkin of a man, his face very 
red, his eyes brightly greedy. 

“ Good evening, Mr. Brockenholt, I hope you’ll 
find everything as you wish.” 

So they were beginning to kiss his hands already! 
A servant girl thrust her head round the door of 
the coffee room, drank deep of the visitor’s hand¬ 
some figure, disappeared. He turned to see the 
clerk in the office gazing at him with wonderment 
on his face. 

“ Everything as you wish — sir,” repeated the 
landlord. 

“ It’s sixpence,” said Brockenholt deliberately, 
“ to watch the animals feed.” 

“ Of course, sir.” 

“ Can I get a drink?” 

They pushed past the curtains and entered the 


RANSOM 


9 


bar. The girl in attendance was hustled aside. 
She regarded herself in the glass and patted her 
hair. She smiled at Brockenholt with a certain 
haughty disdain. She came from Swindon. She 
knew what was what, and how to carry yourself. 

“ Good evening,” she said. 

“ Martini,” said Brockenholt, and watched the 
colour stain her neck and cheeks. She turned to 
the glass for consolation. From that position she 
watched the wicked face of the visitor as he smiled 
at the landlord’s agitation in deliberating between 
the French and Italian vermouths. 

“ We’ve no ice, I’m afraid, sir. I’m very sorry,” 
he apologized. 

“ All right,” and then, “ you will join me?” 

“ Thank you, Mr. Brockenholt, it would be a 
great pleasure. A small whisky, thank you.” 

“ No. A large one! And the lady?” 

The girl from Swindon primed her lips. 

“ No, thank you. Not on duty.” 

Brockenholt regarded her steadily. Little sparks 
of fire flickered at the back of his eyes. One corner 
of his mouth twitched, and he lifted an eyebrow. 
A little wrinkle of mockery curved across his cheek. 

“ Of course you will,” he said. 

She chose a cherry brandy. 

“ If I may make so bold, sir,” said the landlord 
at the second gulp, “ I might say we’ve been await¬ 
ing your arrival with much interest, Mr. Brocken¬ 
holt. That’s so, isn’t it, Miss Serjeant?” 

“ Of course,” replied Miss Serjeant of Swindon, 
and fingered the black bow around her pink and 
powdered neck. 

“ We’ve heard naturally, Mr. Brockenholt, of 


10 


RANSOM 


your — your great generosity to the College. And 
as you know, sir, yourself, anything good for the 
College is good for the town. I may add, sir, that 
we’re very proud of the College, sir, as doubtless 
you know. The town prospers with the College, 
sir. We pride ourselves, Mr. Brockenholt, in being 
able to supply from time to time any little thing 
to gentlemen like yourself who was educated at the 
College.” 

“ Naturally,” said Brockenholt. “ Matter of 
business. I’ll have a gin and orange, please, and 
of course-” he waved his hands towards them. 

He regarded his glass, twisting the stem in his 
fingers. 

“ I used to get breakfast here the last day of 
term.” He sipped his drink. “ It used to cost 
me five shillings,” he added dreamily. “ But you 
weren’t here then, of course.” 

“ No, Mr. Brockenholt, I came here seven years 
ago. During the war.” 

“ I see. I remember the town was the head¬ 
quarters of the Southern Command. I should 
imagine you did well?” 

“ Very well, sir. As a man of business, you 
would appreciate that, Mr. Brockenholt.” 

“ Yes,” said Brockenholt, “ I should appreciate 
that. I was in France at the time.” 

Miss Serjeant picked up a cloth and polished 
the counter. 

“ It must be most gratifying,” she remarked, 
“ for you to come back, Mr. Brockenholt, and to 
give the College such a beautiful gift.” 

“ A man obviously wishes to show gratitude to 
those who taught ’im,” cut in the landlord. 



RANSOM 


11 


Brockenholt replaced his glass on the counter and 
buttoned his coat. 

“ I owe,” he said coldly, “ much to the institution 
that expelled me.” 

There was a moment’s agonized silence. 

“ Go on!” exclaimed Miss Serjeant at last. 

“ She was rather like you,” said Brockenholt, 
and smiling brilliantly left the bar. 

Sophie was in the coffee room, kneeling on a chair 
by the window, looking out onto the dusky road out¬ 
side. She thought the room was chilly. She’d 
never wanted to come down here. She’d told Jimmy 
so, three weeks ago. 

“ I can’t see why you want to go down to that 
frowsy old place, anyway. It isn’t as if you’d cared 
about it. You’ve not been near it for twenty years, 
and as for your giving the school fifteen thousand 
towards the new sanatorium or whatever it is — it’s 
just a gesture, Jimmy. An extravagant way of 
getting your own back, because they chucked you 
out years back. Take me to Capri — we’ll have a 
party! Do you remember, Jimmy, the first time, 
at Capri, that long dusty summer? ...” 

“ I know,” he’d interrupted. “ But I’m going 
down — and you’d better come too.” 

“ Well, Carlo must come.” 

“ All right.” 

She was down here now, and didn’t like it. Carlo 
hadn’t come as yet, and it was just like Jimmy to 
get out of the car four miles out of the town and 
make her arrive alone. She’d pay him out. He 
was keeping her waiting now. A free wind swept 
the street, snatching at paper in the gutter, tossing 


12 


RANSOM 


it high; a cart rumbled over the hill into the sun¬ 
set; through the open window the sound of 
innumerable sheep-bells, tinkling on the distant 
downlands, twittered into the room. There was 
something so bare and desolate, even in late summer, 
about this big country, that made her feel empty 
and cold. All around the town, clustering in the 
elbow of the valley, the open spaces spread out to 
the cloudy horizons. They frightened her. She 
liked warmth and cat-cosiness, nooks and hot fires. 
The wind dropped as suddenly as it had arisen, and 
over the crooked chimney-pots opposite a necklace 
of clouds turned from purple to rose and gold. 
Carlo would never have dragged her down here. 
She wouldn’t have come for Carlo. Funny how 
she was always doing what Jimmy wanted; almost 
against her will, as it were. 

Brockenholt, entering the room quietly, standing 
behind her, surveying her with half-shut eyes. She’s 
angry, he thought. He moved to her side, and 
as she turned her head slowly, her eyes hard behind 
their long dark lashes: 

“ Well?” he asked. 

“ It’s a rotten place!” 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

“ There’s some dinner for us in the room down 
the passage. Or do we wait for Carlo?” 

“ Oh! damn Carlo!” she said; “ let’s go and feed. 
I’m famished.” 

But at the end of the meal, a cigarette wedged 
between her tight little red lips, her red short hair 
in a shock about her head, and her hands clasped 
under her chin, she asked suddenly: 

“ Jimmy, what’s the matter with you?” 


RANSOM 


13 


He shook the mood off him. 

“ Nothing, Sophie.” 

She dabbed the lighted end of her cigarette into 
the ash-tray. 

“ Jimmy,” she said, “ let’s go back. We’ll leave 
a message for Carlo.” 

He shook his head. 

“ No. We’ll see this through, Sophie. They 
expect me up at the school tomorrow to make a 
formal presentation.” 

She reached out and laid a cool hand on his. 

“ You’re getting reminiscent, Jimmy. Maudlin. 
‘ How innocent I was when I was young.’ The 
place is getting on your nerves. I know you.” 

He took her forefinger in his hand and flicked 
at the nail. 

“ Yes, you know me, Sophie. Nobody else does. 
I’d like to explain to you, but I don’t think I can. 
Things come back.” 

“ Good Lord, man. That’s not you.” 

“ Oh, I know that. But you’d not understand. 
It’s not quite that. Only — I was very happy here, 
then, sometimes. One’s quit of the place now, 
really, but I stood this evening and looked down 
this street. I was there, Sophie, walking about, 
watching myself. It was a girl, you know. I can’t 
even remember her name, but she kept a tobacco 
shop just opposite here. I never cared — much 
for the creature, and I’m quite sure she never 
cared — much for me. I used to go into her shop, 
because it was out of bounds. I used to take her 
out on to the downs, because it was forbidden. 
You know the sort of thing. Very silly. Very 
futile. Really, to all intents and purposes, per- 


14 


RANSOM 


fectly harmless. One did it because one had the 
guts to do it, and it made you feel a man. Con¬ 
ceit. They caught me kissing her. That being a 
heinous crime, they expelled me. It was the best 
thing they ever did. It made me hard.” 

She took her hand off his and folded her arms, 
leaning on the table. She’d seen him once or twice 
before like this. There was a lot of the beast in 
him. That side she understood. She held him 
by that knowledge. She knew men, did Sophie. 
Her wisdom was her means of livelihood. But when 
Jimmie got “ soft ” she felt herself losing touch with 
him. You’d got to be hard. You’d got to choke 
those sentimental, almost unbusinesslike, emotions. 
You’d got to live. So she said: 

“If I, Jimmy, let myself go back along the past 
it would be like walking down a red-hot cinder- 
track with bare feet.” 

He smiled at last. 

“ You’re wonderful, Sophie.” 

“ I’m not wonderful,” she replied. “ I’m just in 
control of myself. I hate sloppiness. You wouldn’t 
like me, if I wasn’t what I am.” 

“ You’re a monkey, Sophie. You never had a 
heart, you little beast.” 

“ It’s a hindrance,” said she. “ But go on, Jimmy, 
work it off.” 

Night filled the valleys miles out, flooded along 
the little town’s wide street; the windows of the 
room were indistinct blurred squares. The half-light 
encircled them, and out of that between-time glow, 
Brockenholt told her: 

“ That’s why I got out of the car at Barbary. 
There were two reasons: I didn’t want you to see 


RANSOM 


15 


me — coming into the town; and the idea of the 
great man entering on foot appealed to me. Oh, 
yes, I’m being frank. But honest to God, Sophie, 
I didn’t know it would be quite so bad. I was 
here again, leaving the place. Men love their 
schools, Sophie. I loved mine. I was back on 
that morning, when I was leaving. I didn’t know 
then that years after I’d laugh at my expulsion and 
other men ’ud laugh too. They told me then that 
I was a beast. God knows what for. When there’s 
a girl ... I thought then I was done for. I was 
so damn proud, and it hurt. I came down this 
very road outside red-hot with anger and shame. 
I’d got to go back to my people and tell ’em. 
That can be pretty hard. I stood on the station 
waiting for the train, and I swore then that I’d 
come tack one day and they’d shake me by the 
hand. They made me hard, Sophie, those learned 
canting masters; it was their only gift to me, and 
the only one of their giving worth acceptance. But 
— they took something away.” 

He rose to his feet and stood by the window. 

“ They took something away. God knows what 
it was. God knows if it matters. But I’m hungry, 
Sophie, hungry for something.” 

She lit another cigarette, and blew out the flame 
of the match. 

“ I’m not laughing at you, Jimmy, but you’re 
too damn funny for words.” 

“ I know I am,” he said; “ what’s the matter with 
me, Sophie?” He stepped beside her, and laid 
two immense hands on her shoulders, and shook 
her gently. “ Tell me, Sophie,” he said, “ tell me, 
you witch.” 


16 


RANSOM 


“ Poor old sinner,” she murmured and, bending 
back her head, turned her mouth upwards to his. 

But he left her then. 

“ You don’t mind, girl? I want to walk this off. 
Carlo will arrive soon. I’ll be back by ten.” 

“ I don’t want to be left, Jimmy.” 

Something of his customary brusqueness returned 
to him. He scowled down at her from his great 
height. 

“ You’ll be all right,” he said, and went. 

It was dark outside. Half a dozen lamps were 
alight in the street. Windows were yellow. A 
public-house opposite suddenly filled with noise. A 
man rode past with a clatter of hoofs and rattled 
out of sight. The sparks of their cigarettes dotting 
the darkness, a group of young loiterers were stand¬ 
ing at a corner, chipping the servant-girls swinging 
past, whistling, cat-calling softly. Only the old 
buildings above watched with rheumy shuttered 
eyes, nodding through the night, waiting for the 
moon to swim over them, for dawn’s grey pencilling 
on the sky, for sunlight again. Day after day, night 
after night, standing patiently by strength of their 
old timbers. 

He took the road to the Common, till at the 
top of the hill he could see the clustering lights 
of the town, and the glow of it eating into the 
dark. He stood there, watching, with a feeling 
of great desolation. The road that ran beneath 
him slipped away into the dim recesses of the 
downs. The leaves of a group of trees, near by, 
shivered dismally. The night flowed about him. 
He was in a semi-luminous world of his own. Dis¬ 
tantly, the College bell clanged for chapel. He fled 


RANSOM 


17 


from the mockery of it along the road, walking 
quickly, till his footsteps suddenly became silent 
on turf. Now the sound of the town was gone. 
Now only the wind upon the grass rustled quietly 
like the sea heard from a cliff. A silver radiance 
spread from a wall of cloud ahead of him, widening, 
painting the downs with high lights, cutting out 
the shapes of trees and bushes on either side, till 
he could see the Hackpen Hill, seven miles away, 
flung like an Ethiopian’s arm across the horizon. 
But his eyes were blinded by his thoughts and he 
walked on till the lifting slope of Hackpen Hill 
lessened his pace. He stopped, sat down on a sar- 
cen stone and lit a pipe. Tomorrow he must go 
in all his glory and be thanked formally for his 
gift to the school. He wondered what form the 
ceremony would take. At least it would be amus¬ 
ing to patronize the Head and his learned colleagues: 
to hear their thanks, to receive it casually, to — to 
shock them a little. He hoped Sophie wouldn’t 
behave too outrageously. You never could tell 
what she’d say or do next and there was a week 
to put in down here. Besides, there was Carlo to 
account for. Certainly Carlo had had to come. 
Unattached females were not looked upon too 
favourably, he imagined, by the upholders of the 
monastic code that ruled the place. He didn’t 
want to do anything that might be just beyond the 
limit of decorum. That wasn’t done. Neverthe¬ 
less, the idea of Carlo acting the part of chaperon 
was funny. Carlo, who just hadn’t the money or 
the way with him to steal Sophie, who had held on 
to hope of that for years. Well, he wasn’t afraid of 
Carlo. As for Sophie ... he could manage herl 


18 


RANSOM 


He’d never forgotten what Sophie had once told him. 

“ A woman’ll love a man, Jimmy, for all the kicks 
he gives her, and go on loving him and then some. 
But if ever the breaking point is reached, then as 
she’s loved him she’ll hate him. She’ll cut him 
out of her heart. That’s true, Jimmy, but it doesn’t 
affect us. We’re not in love.” 

No, he didn’t love Sophie and he supposed she 
didn’t love him in the accepted sense of the word. 
But she carried her clothes well. She suited him. 
She was a good companion. “ I’m a splendid 
clothes-horse,” she’d informed him, “ but the rate 
for hanging clouts on my line is very high.” Well, 
he could afford it — easily. But as for love . . . 
that was life’s three-card trick: you never spotted 
the queen. Wise men didn’t waste time on tricks. 
That chaotic absurd embroiling of emotions that he 
and the tobacco-girl had had! You saw what that 
did for you, easily enough. A fit reward for fools. 
Women, as a class, were different. They were . . . 
women. Either they had children, and grew hag¬ 
gard producing, or else they remained charming 
— and amusing. An expensive amusement, per¬ 
haps. Of that crowd, the only crowd, Sophie was 
the pick of the bunch. She was straight. She’d 
never let you down. She knew the rules and kept 
them. She was as hard as nails and she wasn’t 
cheap. Yet — yet down here, in this queer country, 
one realized — it was well to be honest though it 
made you laugh at yourself — that somehow, some¬ 
where, there was a vacuum. One wanted something 
terribly badly. You’d give much for it, you’d fight 
to get it. You wanted it like the devil. But that 
didn’t help you to find out what it was. If I knew, 


RANSOM 


19 


he thought, I’d get it. And that was no vanity on 
his part. He spoke truth. When he saw, he took. 

So far he had taken everything he wanted. That 
was why at thirty-eight he was, practically speaking, 
Lingfields Limited. He’d gone into the motor 
trade at nineteen: learning his work in the shops, 
greedy for knowledge, for power, sacrificing him¬ 
self. He was like a thousand other men of his 
stamp: hard in work; soft in pleasure. He knew 
the business of both pursuits from top to bottom. 
Caught in the war, he’d turned his abilities to 
the new task in hand, and within six months of 
joining up had gained his majority. Nineteen- 
seventeen had seen him as Colonel Brockenholt, in 
charge of the transport at Abbeville. From that 
experience had come Lingfields. “ Carter Paterson 
on the grand scale ” he’d called it. The network 
of commercial motor-transport was already estab¬ 
lished in the Midlands. “ We don’t strike ” was his 
token. It didn’t worry him that Carlo Maude had 
started Motor-Transport in opposition. Carlo was 
too polished, too immaculate, like his syndicate. 
The public followed Brockenholt. 

He made his way back to the town rapidly. As 
he reached the Common, a light sprang up in a 
top window of an isolated cottage. The sudden 
flash caught his eye and he looked up. A girl 
stood in the window, her fair hair, loose over her 
shoulders, was luminous before the candlelight. He 
could see her hands on the sill. He stopped in 
the shadow of the hedge and watched her. He 
had an eye for pretty women. But this girl wasn’t 
only pretty, her mouth was too wide for that, 
and her forehead too high. Her eyes he couldn’t 


20 


RANSOM 


see, but he knew they were fixed on the far dark 
ridge of Barbary. He was. not a romanticist, his 
imagination with women generally ran in a typical 
groove; nevertheless, there was something indefi¬ 
nitely beautiful about the girl; something fey, 
tantalizing. He knew she was lovely. It wasn’t 
his custom to watch women under such circum¬ 
stances. That was crude. But he watched this girl, 
who had suddenly come into being in the night. It 
was charming, an experience worth remembrance. 
He never forgot that first glimpse of Isabel. The 
light flickered, she moved, was gone — darkness. 

When he reached the hotel Carlo had arrived. 
He was drinking whisky in the coffee room, and 
making inadequate love to Sophie. 

“ Hallo, Brock,” he said. “ Been getting senti¬ 
mental, I hear. Sophie says the roses round the 
door have hit you badly.” He lowered his eyes 
before Brockenholt’s sudden thunderous glance, and 
examined the tips of his beautifully manicured nails. 

“ I’m off to bed,” said Sophie, and left the room. 

Maude stretched himself and twisted his wrist 
round to see the time. 

“ Night-night, Brock. We’ll wake up this giddy 
town tomorrow.” 

Brockenholt lit his candle. 

“ Night-night, Brock.” 

“ Look here,” said that large friend of his, “ you’re 
going to behave yourself down here, Carlo.” 

Maude yawned. 

“ I’ll do as I’m told, Brock. But we ought to 
sample the country wenches.” 

“ Oh, go to hell,” said Brockenholt, and stamped 
upstairs. 


CHAPTER II 


He heard the song for the first time as next morn¬ 
ing he entered the College gates. A small boy with 
a very small body and very long legs was singing it 
in unison with seven other small boys in a study 
window in the red building of the Junior House on 
his right. They sang, as small boys in such circum¬ 
stances invariably sing, very shrilly, very badly. 
They sang neither from a sense of enjoyment nor 
from necessity; the time was the interval between 
morning school and last hour; they sang because they 
knew their housemaster was in his room beneath, 
and they wished to disturb him. Corporal proceed¬ 
ings against harmony at this moment were negli¬ 
gible. One had “ break ” to collect one’s books; 
one was free in “ break ”; therefore, one (or seven) 
could sing. Therefore one sang. It was a song 
like scores of other songs, yet better. It was a 
revue-song and as sentimental as it was absurd. 
Its tune was so eminently tuneful that it was im¬ 
possible to forget. 

“ Oh, Honey, when the silver moon is gleaming, 
Stars a-drearning, 

Oh, I want cher, Yes! I want cherl )} 

“ I’ve heard that before,” said Brockenholt. 

“ Of course you have,” said Sophie. “ It’s from 
‘ Brighter Brighton.’ It’s very popular.” 

21 


22 


RANSOM 


“ H’m,” said Brockenholt, and tapped at the door 
of the lodge. 

He had not been especially pleased at Sophie and 
Carlo insisting on accompanying him to the cere¬ 
mony of gratitude. They, he knew, felt quite cer¬ 
tain of a reception of bands and cheers and clappings. 
He himself was not so sure. He had an uneasy 
suspicion that the authorities, though compelled by 
necessity to accept his gift, would by no means wel¬ 
come back to the fold a sheep, to their eyes, of 
so ominous a colour: he suspected that the Head 
and Committee, together with the Senior Masters, 
would retire upon their dignity. He was prepared 
for that, yet a possible lack of clamorous praise might 
disappoint Sophie and Carlo, and in some vague 
way chip a little of the glory from his gilded throne 
of self-importance. But he held the school staff in 
contempt as an eccentric crew of unworldly despots 
who knew too much to teach their pupils and in 
another sense too little. The quadrangle was busy 
with boys running to their various classrooms. Some 
stood in groups of twenty or more, beneath the lime 
trees that formed an avenue down the length of the 
square, awaiting the arrival of a gowned master, 
books beneath his arm. Many of them as they 
passed hurriedly, frankly curious, stared at this 
group of personified wealth and magnificence. 
Sophie, a green silk cloak thrown carelessly about 
her shoulders, her eyes concealed beneath the fringe 
of gold lace edging her hat, smiled enchantingly at 
them as they ran by. Many a small boy, incurably 
romantic as only small boys imagine themselves to 
be, carried with him, side by side with Loney’s 
Statics and his own illegible contributions to science, 


RANSOM 


23 


that vision of Sophie to console his bored spirit 
during the next weeks of school, or to form a topic 
of pseudo-sophisticated criticism for the rest of the 
term amongst the more worldly of his friends. In 
truth she was summed up as “ a stunner,’’ a “ mighty 
fine woman ” (this from a seventeen-year-old Forty- 
Cap), “a perfect peach,” a “ damn pretty girl.” 
Carlo, his square body, tightly wedged into a morn¬ 
ing coat of amazing cut, topped with a shining top- 
hat, tipped with radiant spats, was also considered 
passably well dressed. A certain exaggeration of 
the super-chic appeals irresistibly to the very young. 
Smooth hair, fawn socks, and startling waistcoats 
symbolize pomp of a well-earned kind. To the 
great only, prefects, members of the XV, and XI’s, 
Caps and other “ bloods,” can such symbols belong. 
To the critical minds then of these youthful experts, 
Sophie, and Carlo must be included, were arrayed 
such as no Queen of Sheba or the indefinite daugh¬ 
ters of Solomon in all their glory might have 
been. As for Brockenholt, his chief sign of splen¬ 
dour was the monocle that glittered in his left eye, 
above his beaky nose. Sophie, to their mind, was 
above question of beauty. Carlo they accepted as 
something worthy to decorate their quadrangle, but 
Brockenholt, saturnine, six foot two of him, with 
an air of rugged handsomeness and nonchalance 
glimpsed in the passing, lit their imaginations, and 
they conceived him to be, what in part he was, “ the 
devil of a chap.” The only fault they found with 
him was with the direction of his gift. It was, they 
considered, a waste of good money to chuck fifteen 
thousand away in the building of a sanatorium. 
“ Sanny,” as it stood, was good enough for them; 


24 


RANSOM 


one seldom used it, anyway, whereas the racquet 
courts could do with enlarging and a bit of new 
turf on the playing fields wouldn’t be amiss. An 
extra week’s holiday, or better still an eternal per¬ 
mission to use motor-bikes, was what a chap really 
needed to make life tolerable. There was, however, 
a certain recompense in unearthing bewildering 
legends concerning this remarkable Brockenholt. 
In studies and dormitories it was of course common 
knowledge that he’d been “ bunked ” for keeping 
five mistresses in the town and drinking champagne 
in the old Pavilion. He’d led a rebellion that had 
only just failed because he’d been too drunk to 
collar the porter before the lodge bell rang warning. 
They’d looked him up in House collections of old 
team photos and, with great delight, discovered the 
“ J. Brockenholt ” underneath his massive figure, 
glorious in XV cap and jersey. Any one of them 
could tell you his life-history and record with a fine 
disregard for facts. In short, Brockenholt had 
caught their fancy and sense of the romantic. 

The court was clear of boys, and filled with the 
murmur of settling classes issuing from the multi¬ 
tudinous windows opening on to the square, before 
the porter, his uniform hurriedly donned, opened 
the lodge door, and touched his cap. 

“ Good morning, sir,” said he. 

“ Good morning, porter,” said Brockenholt. 
“ The Master expects me about this time.” 

The porter examined the card, and sprang to life, 
a vision of half-crowns and importance prompting 
him. 

“ The school, sir,” he replied, “ is to h’assemble 
in Hall after last hour. The Master would be 


RANSOM 


25 


pleased to see you, sir, as soon as you arrive. If 
you would be so good as to follow me.” 

The four of them crossed the square, the oval 
rotundity of the porter swaying majestically before 
them, entered the grey building at the bottom of 
the avenue, passed down a dark lengthy corridor 
and halted before a tall door. The porter tapped 
twice, coughed, removed his helmet. 

“ Mr. Brockenholt, if you please, sir.” 

Sophie laid a hand on Carlo’s sleeve. 

“ Rats,” was that gentleman’s comment, “ ’course, 
we go in too, Sophie. Must see Brock’s welcome. 
Not,” he added maliciously, “ not that he’ll find it 
roses all the way, I’m thinking.” 

“ He’s got the nerve,” said Sophie. 

It was a long high room in which they found them¬ 
selves. Narrow windows illuminated it from the 
far end; white panelling towered to the delicate 
moulding of the ceiling. A reproduction of the 
“ Dionysus and Ariadne ” occupied a prominent 
positiod over the red brick fire-place, with its iron 
fire-dogs. The entire length of the right-hand wall 
was covered half-way up with a mahogany bookcase. 
A man in a dark blue suit sat cross-legged on a chair 
by the window. By a low table at his side, erect, 
very thin, his grey hair like an open fan behind his 
head, his knotty hands holding open the side of his 
coat, stood the Master. They called him “ Eagle ” 
in the school. It was an apt name, from the keen 
deep eyes beneath their tufts of eyebrows, the slight 
hunch of his back, to the quick sure pouncings of 
his brain and the talons of his mind. The Reverend 
Herbert Monckton-Revelle, Master of Marlton 
College, Fellow of Christ’s, author of Leonardo da 


26 


RANSOM 


Vinci, The Life of Tintoretto, The Second Renais¬ 
sance', man of letters, man of iron, worthy of his 
name. So they called him “ Eagle,” feared him, 
honoured him, some of them — loved him, knowing 
as needs they must the cool clear knowledge behind 
that bony forehead, the stern compassion of him, his 
tough idealism, his old wisdom. And old “ Eagle,” 
a gentle smile across his face, his knobbly fingers 
outstretched, shook Brockenholt by the hand, bowed 
awkwardly to that blaze of small beauty, Sophie 
Wontner, nodded to Mr. Carlo Maude. 

“ Let me introduce,” said old “ Eagle,” “ Lord 
Home, our chairman.” 

The little man in the blue suit, for all the world 
like a pouter-pigeon, inclined his head, and sat down 
again very quickly. 

They found seats. The Reverend Monckton- 
Revelle rumpled the harvest of short hair at the 
back of his head. 

“ Lord Home, Mr. Brockenholt, has come down 
to thank you personally for your very generous gift 
to the school. I, too, would like, on behalf of my 
colleagues and the present members of Marlton, to 
express my gratitude.” 

“Quite!” said Brockenholt, and examined Lord 
Home with a characteristic upraising of his right 
eyebrow. 

The chairman’s face changed from pale pink to 
purple. Two small wriggling veins appeared beside 
his temples. He glared back at the mighty director 
of Lingfields Limited with venom. Sophie, swing¬ 
ing a dainty foot to and fro, lifted an eye in Carlo 
Maude’s direction, where he sat carefully on a high- 


RANSOM 


27 


backed Chippendale. Mr. Maude stroked his upper 
lip with a pensive forefinger and stuck his tongue 
in his cheek on that side of his face nearest to Miss 
Wontner. 

“ The building of a new sanatorium will be a 
very great asset to the school/’ continued old 
“ Eagle/’ smiling benignly. “ I feel sure, Mr. Brock- 
enholt, that your gift will be appreciated very 
readily by all old Marltonians.” 

“ I hope so,” said Brockenholt. He wasn’t going 
to make it easy for them. Not he! He could give 
them twenty thousand if he wanted to — but they 
should sing the tune for it first. Even so, their 
enthusiasm didn’t seem great. The whip was his. 
They should skip to its lash. 

“ When will it be ready?” he asked. 

The Master turned to some papers on his desk, 
searched through them. 

“ Perhaps you would care to look through these,” 
he said. 

“ They are the various estimates. You will see 
the building should be completed in a year’s time.” 

“ Thanks,” said Brockenholt and surveyed the 
items. He called Maude over to him. Together 
they nodded and shrugged at figures, plans, details. 

“ I suppose the darlings get awfully ill, some¬ 
times?” asked Sophie, one slender arm exposed 
expertly, her fingers resting on the handle of a 
parasol. 

The corners of old “ Eagle’s ” mouth twitched, 
a hundred little wrinkles creasing the skin; a faint 
stain of embarrassment glowed beneath his high 
cheek-bones. 


28 


RANSOM 


“ Occasionally,” he answered; “fortunately the 
place is bracing and it’s frequently a matter of 
influenza or small fractures at games.” 

“ If,” said Sophie, smiling sweetly at Lord Home, 
“ if I had a son, I should send him here. I do think 
the black coats look nice.” 

The chairman, his feathers already ruffled, and 
his pouter-pigeon body large with suppressed indig¬ 
nation, opened a round hole of a mouth, and said: 

“Ah!” 

“ Yes, indeed,” continued Miss Wontner. 
“ Wouldn’t you, Carlo?” 

“You bet,” agreed Mr. Maude brightly, looking 
up from the plans. 

“ You pay us a great compliment,” said the 
pouter-pigeon. 

“ Not at all,” explained Mr. Maude airily. “ Not 
at all.” He expanded, feeling chatty. “ I expect 
this place is as good as any other, really. Brock’s 
no credit to it, of course, but then, you’re bound 
to find a mongrel pup or two in a litter.” 

“ Don’t be ridiculous, Carlo,” said Miss Wontner. 
“ But,” she asked old “ Eagle,” “ do you smack the 
poor little things very often?” 

Old “ Eagle’s ” under lip trembled. 

“ Sometimes, yes. Corporal punishment is still 
regarded as an essential for the control of boys.” 

Miss Wontner paused, her head on one side, she 
seemed to be enjoying a personal visualization. She 
leant forward, her eyes, innocent, fixed on old 
“ Eagle.” 

“And when you do smack them, do they have 
to —to-” 

Mr. Maude guffawed. “Damn good, Sophie. 



RANSOM 


29 


Ha! Ha! Oh, damn good. No, they keep ’em 
on! Eh? That’s so, sir?” 

“ I’m afraid I don’t understand,” said the chair¬ 
man, and rose to his feet. 

“ What’s the matter, Carlo?” asked Miss Wont- 
ner. “ I was going to say, do they have to pretend 
it doesn’t hurt?” 

But Mr. Maude shook his head at her. 

“ Little devil!” he said. “ No accounting for 
women, is there, sir?” 

“ Apparently not,” was Lord Home’s reply. 

“ Anyway, it’s all beside the point,” continued 
Miss Wontner. “ I don’t think I ever shall have 
a son. One’s figure suffers so!” 

Brockenholt tossed the papers on to the table. 

“ Seems all right,” he said. “ I don’t know the 
architect’s name, though.” 

“ That doesn’t matter, Brock,” Maude chipped 
in; “ the point seems whether the little devils’ll 
get sufficient stabling for their diseased bodies. 
That’s so isn’t it?” He cocked his sleek head at 
the Reverend Monckton-Revelle. 

“ One gathers that is necessary — Mr.—Mr.- 

“ Carlo Maude. You’ll find me in Who's Who!” 

“ Doubtless — thank you.” 

“ In that case, then,” murmured the chairman. 

Old “ Eagle ” rose to his feet. “ In that case, 
Mr. Brockenholt, we won’t detain you any longer. 
The school will be present in Hall in ” — he glanced 
at the clock — “ in half an hour’s time. We should 
be delighted to see you there. Lord Home will 
tell the boys the exact nature of your generosity, and 
they will have an opportunity of meeting their 
benefactor. You know how very sincerely we thank 



30 


RANSOM 


you for this very substantial help, how grateful we 
are and how deeply we recognize the sentiment 
prompting it.” 

They shook hands again. Outside in the passage 
Carlo squeezed Sophie’s arm. 

“ What did I tell you?” 

“ Jimmy,” she said, “ they don’t seem very — 
impressed!” 

“ Don’t they?” Brockenholt asked, the devil in 
his eyes. 

And the other side of the door, the chairman, 
his face a mask of contempt, told the Reverend 
Monckton-Revelle: 

“ Impossible. The man’s a cad.” 

And old “ Eagle,” standing before his window, 
his gnarled hands clasped behind him, his fan of 
grey hair moving like tall grass in the draught, 
looked out to where the sunlight beat dazzlingly on 
to the gravel of the court, where the limes flung cool 
deep shadows over the squares of grass, and shook 
his head once or twice. 

“ No, Home. Not a cad. One must always make 
allowances.” He faced about, his eyes deep with 
wisdom, the light outlining with gold of the sun 
his delicate profile. 

“ I seem to find more and more, Home, the 
longer I am here that there are always allowances 
to be made. One learns, one sees, one tries to 
understand. They grow up, these boys, almost 
under your hands, like clay, plastic, ripe for the 
moulding. Sometimes the clay takes goodly shape; 
sometimes — the potter’s hand shakes. One waits, 
and they return — men. We see then how fares 
the clay; how chipped; how weathered; how broken. 


RANSOM 


31 


It’s interesting, Home; it’s wonderfully interesting, 
and sometimes — it’s very sad! ” 

“ But he was always — loose!” said Home. 

“ So one hears! He was here before my time, 
of course. They expelled him because of a girl in 
the town. It was naturally the only thing to do. 
One must keep the level high. The individual 
suffers. It’s right. But it can be very hard. He 
hoped to humiliate us, Home — with his money! 
That’s not a thing to be vexed at, I think. To me, 
it’s — tragic. That man’s tortured inside for all his 
brutality. One gets to know the insides of people 
— boys, men — by constantly watching. He’s like 
a lot of us — on a rack of his own making. He 
has a long road to go before the beast in him is dead. 
A lot to lose, Home. A lot to lose.” 

The chairman sighed deeply. 

“ You’re too good for this world, ‘ Eagle.’ But 
I don’t know what we’d do without you.” 

But the Reverend Monckton-Revelle shook his 
head and bent and unbent his fingers till the joints 
cracked. He regarded the chairman with affection. 

“ You must make allowances for me too, Home. 
But it’s interesting. Yes, yes. It’s interesting.” 


CHAPTER III 


It was nearing half-past twelve. The grandfather 
clock in the sitting room stammered the quarter. 
There was an atmosphere of haste, of bustle about 
the little house on the edge of the Common. Isabel, 
with the energy of seventeen years, was engaged in 
brushing her father’s coat with one hand, and with 
the other removing any traces of dust from his soft 
felt hat by beating it against the umbrella stand. 
Her mother, adding a further layer of powder to 
her button nose, called from her bedroom: 

“Archie! Archie! Hurry up, do now!” 

Archibald Luke, formerly Master of Music at 
Marlton College, now retired, appeared from his 
kennel of a study at the rear of the hall and, helpless 
in shirt sleeves and nickel-plated spectacles, asked 
plaintively: 

“ Where is my coat, Madeleine, where is my 
coat?” 

His wife, majestic in a fawn coat and skirt with 
yellow silk facings, swayed across the floor of the 
bedroom and thrust a mauve and indignant coun¬ 
tenance over the banisters. 

“ I don’t know where your coat is, Archie. Don’t 
be a fool. You know how bad it is for my heart.” 

To all appearances, Mrs. Luke was that unique 
thing, a perfect complement to her husband, in that 
her size certainly balanced his lack of height, depth 
and width, her volubility his dumbness, her vitality 
his limpness. Unkind people were wont to declare 
32 


RANSOM 


33 


that Mrs. Luke was not unlike a certain female 
spider who, incredibly larger than the male, swallows 
and eats him after his various uses have been accom¬ 
plished. In one sense, this was true, in another the 
parallel disappeared. For, certainly, Mr. Luke had 
at no time been of use to any one, least of all to his 
employers, and the swallowing of any morsel tends 
to absorption. Likely enough, Mrs. Luke considered 
her husband indigestible. Unkind people, however, 
abound in plenty, and it may have been the ques¬ 
tionable success of Mrs. Luke’s social enterprises 
that caused the acidity tainting their behaviour to 
all of the Luke family — except Isabel. But then, 
every one adored Isabel. 

In many ways the society of Marlton was not 
unlike that of a garrison town, in that the wives of 
senior masters might be the temporary and proud 
possessors of stalls at the quarterly jumble sales and 
bazaars, while the newly-weds or the juniors, as it 
were, could only thread their way through a luke¬ 
warm unenthusiastic crowd of patrons, with small 
trays, collecting-boxes for the Marlton Mission, 
pamphlets, and other such inferior wares. Nobody 
ever seemed to remember the time when Luke had 
been on actual service at the College. As far as 
anybody knew, he’d always been in a state of retire¬ 
ment. Truth to tell, he was an excellent musician 
with all the vanity and narrowness of his art that 
left him painfully at the mercy of his pupils, who had 
turned up for choir practices occasionally and used 
the music rooms for such immoral purposes as shove- 
ha’penny parties and penny Nap. Notwithstanding, 
Mrs. Luke, by dint of sheer weight and impenetrable 
skin, managed to battle and win a prominent position 


34 


RANSOM 


in Marlton Society, such as it was. There was a 
very distinct line of caste drawn between “ town ” 
and “college.’’ Somehow Mrs. Luke (the woman 
had brains) managed to keep a middle course, culti¬ 
vating the richer town-folk and the poorer “ college ” 
wives. She was sure of one thing — “money talks.” 
By this stratagem she was able to divert a consider¬ 
able sum from the “ townites ” every year towards 
the social enterprises of what she termed her “ own 
class.” Nobody had ever run with the hare and 
hunted with the hounds to such a degree of success 
as Mrs. Luke. But over all she had one priceless 
possession — Isabel. It is always a wonder of 
nature how ugly parents frequently produce beauti¬ 
ful children; and Isabel was beautiful, tall and 
fair and sweet. It is taken for granted that the 
College adored her from the awe-stricken new 
boys to the “ bloods ” of the Upper School. When 
she sat in chapel hundreds of eyes peeped be¬ 
tween fingers at her, they sang their hymns at her, 
they watched her with dog-like humble worship, 
they regarded her as something of their own, a com¬ 
munal goddess, to be spoken of with respect and due 
reverence. She typified that mysterious, wonder¬ 
ful, enthralling thing — woman: the creature none 
of them had ever been taught about; the thing they 
must learn for themselves; the first great revela¬ 
tion that should greet their adventuring minds when 
school gates closed against them for the last time 
and the world was ripe for discovery. She was the 
focus of six hundred adolescent first-wellihg calf- 
loves. She was never a girl — she was Isabel. They 
talked about her quite openly to one another. They 
travelled, in their awakening imagination, long rap- 


RANSOM 


35 


turous paths with her by their side. They looked 
very serious when they discussed her; they assumed 
a nodding worldly-wise, almost paternal, expression. 
But it never spoilt Isabel. She knew about it quite 
well. She liked them all. There was safety in 
numbers. She rivalled Helen in her admirers and 
ruled them as befitted a queen. She was devoid of 
undercurrents and subterfuge. She liked admira¬ 
tion and in return kept that fair position in their 
hearts by declining to recognize any individual atten¬ 
tion. Years afterwards, when the old pain was 
quenched and Brockenholt had killed the beast in 
him, she would think back, seeing the tall interior 
of the chapel, its pews lined with those boys’ faces; 
watching again the countless eyes, the bowed heads, 
the thousand differences of them, their new beauty, 
their eager hands, wondering what they had found 
for their hearts’ comfort, what the middle years had 
brought to them, and if there were still of mysteries 
no end and of living further adventuring. Now 
busily engaged in sorting her father into something 
resembling a co-ordinate being, her mind was alert 
with the new excitement of James Brockenholt’s 
arrival. She too had heard much of this dark man 
with the thousands at his finger-tips, of his power, 
of his gift, of his — past. Like a shuttlecock his 
name had been tossed from lip to lip, for the last 
two months, across the drawing rooms of Marlton. 
The tides of that society had split against the rock 
of his reception. A man like that, my dear, to come 
back. As if we wanted such people! Forcing 
himself upon us, really. Very generous, of course. 
Could afford to be? Well, it wasn’t everybody who 
was generous, even when they had money. That 


36 


RANSOM 


was something. On the other hand, one heard 
things. . . . Only the other day Mrs. Brayham 
was saying. . . . You’d heard? Well! But of 
course the College needed a new sanatorium. A 
sensible gift. Oh, certainly. Very awkward, though. 
One wouldn’t wish to go into details, but ... it was 
a duty. 

And Brockenholt had arrived. Mrs. Brayham 
knew. Of course she did. Didn’t Mrs. Brayham 
always know? It had nearly driven Mrs. Luke to 
one of her fainting-fits to get the information from 
Mrs. Brayham. As if any one really cared, anyway, 
what that woman said! Mrs. Brayham had played 
with Mrs. Luke like a mouse with a cat. Mrs. 
Lang-Davies had been there as well. At last the 
flood of information burst the breakwater of Mrs. 
Brayham’s lips. 

“ He — er — they are staying at the Marlton 
Arms.” 

“ The Marlton Arms?” 

“ Yes — he — er — they.” 

“ They?” 

“ I’m afraid so.” 

Old Mrs. Lang-Davies had rustled her skirt and 
sighed deeply. Dear me, dear me. It was no 
business of hers, but it was a pity. So unnecessary. 

“ Tell me, dear,” cooed Mrs. Luke. 

“ There’s very little to tell,” lied Mrs. Brayham, 
feeling like a retired Secret Service official selling 
his Life and Memoirs to the Daily Mail. 

“ Is — is she-?” ventured Mrs. Luke. 

“ Very pretty,” replied Mrs. Brayham. “ One 
doesn’t know, of course, but she’s beautifully dressed. 
Her clothes must have cost a fortune.” 



RANSOM 


37 


“And he?” 

“ Which one?” 

“ Two of them?” 

“Well, a friend, I believe. Mr. — er, Mr.— 
Brockenholt — how curiously that name sticks in the 
throat — Mr. Brockenholt is extremely handsome.” 

“ Ah!” 

“ He looks, well, one might say, a — dare-devil.” 

“ No — indeed?” 

“ I can’t help thinking,” continued Mrs. Bray- 
ham, “ that it is a great mistake the College accept¬ 
ing his gift; it puts one in a false position. One 
cannot afford to take a firm stand. There are so 
many people-” 

“ Of course,” said Mrs. Luke, “ of course, one 
never quite knows where one is, does one?” 

“ I do feel, though, it’s very unfortunate. Mr. 
Brayham cannot see my point of view. But then 
men always feel bound to defend other men. But 
we women should — er — stand together.” 

“ Most decidedly,” agreed Mrs. Luke. “ Quite 
right.” 

Old Mrs. Lang-Davies had gone then. She told 
her husband afterwards. 

“ Such a to-do, dear. It’s really too absurd. I 
feel sorry for this poor man. He’ll be like a shrimp 
among the sharks.” 

Lang-Davies, who had tried to teach Brockenholt 
the rudiments of Physics some twenty years before, 
the only remaining master in the school who had 
dealt with him personally, gave a chirping chuckle. 

“Not he! I can’t remember much about him. 
But he’ll scatter the sharks. He’s a bad man, of 
course, from our standards. But bless my heart, 



38 


RANSOM 


I’d rather have ’em bad and bright than dull and 
good.” 

And now the great day had come! At twelve- 
thirty Mr. James Brockenholt would be present in 
Hall. Invitations had been issued. They had all 
been accepted. “ One ought to go, of course,” said 
Mrs. Luke. Of course one ought to, apart from 
the vulgar instinct of curiosity. She meant to say, 
one couldn’t be curious when one knew so much, 
could one? No, Isabel mustn’t hear. She wouldn’t 
understand. 

“ Where is my coat?” wailed Mr. Luke. 

“ It’s here, daddy. No, the other arm! Now! 
And have you got a handkerchief?” 

“ I had” said Mr. Luke pathetically. “ I had” 

His wife came down the stairs, waving the missing 
requisite in her hand. 

“ You left it in my room. Why, Archie, must 
you always keep us waiting?” 

“ I lost my coat,” said Mr. Luke. 

“ Rubbish,” replied that lady, and led the way 
down the garden path. 

Already a thin stream of visitors was progressing 
down the high-street towards Turner’s Lane. As 
the Lukes turned the corner by Tucker’s, Mrs. 
Brayham and the new Lower School Master joined 
them. Notwithstanding her disapproval of the forth¬ 
coming ceremony, Mrs. Brayham had fought her 
way into that especial buff tussore reserved for 
occasions of dignity and pomp. The new master, full 
of fear that he would reach Common Room too 
late to secure his gown in time for an early entry 
into Hall, bobbed by Mrs. Luke’s side like a tug 
in attendance to a ship of war. Luke, Isabel at his 


RANSOM 


39 


side, wandered behind dismally. Every now and 
then he would snatch his hat from his head and 
blink behind his spectacles with amazing rapidity, 
this signifying recognition of some persons known or 
unknown. As they entered the school gates, Hall 
bell began to clang, and the school, some six hun¬ 
dred and fifty strong, struggled savagely for seats on 
the tables and forms, for no other reason than for 
fair fighting’s sake. At the far end of the building, 
on the raised dais reserved for prefects and the 
Master at meal times, and behind the long table were 
ranged seven chairs. Two wings of twenty or so 
more chairs were in semicircular position at the 
extremities of the platform. An observer of this 
typical scene might have discovered a somewhat 
similar battle being developed for the seats on the 
dais reserved for the staff and their womenkind and 
visitors. Whereas one small boy spoke forcibly to 
another small boy in this wise: 

“ Do you want the whole place to yourself? Get 
your feet down.” So on the other hand Mrs. Bray- 
ham asked Mrs. Luke: 

“ I wonder how we are supposed to sit — by 
seniority, I should think, Mrs. Luke, wouldn’t you?” 

Which after all was saying the same thing in an 
even more forcible way. 

In the course of five minutes the great building 
was full. A roar of smothered conversation filled 
it. Six hundred and fifty faces were turned towards 
the dais: from that position of austerity, thirty 
faces were turned impassively towards the assembled 
school. Soon the Master, Lord Home, four senior 
masters and the great man himself would arrive. 
You could hear tags of the universal conjecturing, 


40 RANSOM 

flapping out like birds from the middle-mist of the 
general hubbub. 

A boy’s shrill voice: “ This place is bagged! Oh, 
get out! Old Eagle’s narked. Saw him crossing 
Court. The girl’s a peach! . . . seen him? Bet 
your life. The other chap’s a bounder!” Mrs. 
Brayham whispering: “ How do you do. Yes, he’s 
better, thanks. Pleurisy. So trying. I quite agree 
with you, but so difficult to — er — take a stand. 
Of course, but then the Master always will have his 
own way.” Mrs. Luke vibrating: “ I told my hus¬ 
band, Archie, we must remember our position! Pull 
your chair in, Archie. Isabel, your blouse, dear. 
No, the top button. You’re quite right, abominably 
managed. One would have thought the Bursar . . .” 

The bell ringing again, sudden silence, scraping 
of feet, then the waves of word-laden air breaking 
against the bleak walls again. Louder now; some¬ 
body laughing in the middle of Hall. A master’s 
voice: “ Keep quiet there.” Eyes, eyes, hundreds 
of them, ranging from face to face, all in one direc¬ 
tion now, towards the great door with the sun beat¬ 
ing through it. The hiss of expectation. . . . Ah! 

There they were! Old “ Eagle ” first, his gown 
crooked over his shoulders, his head thrust forward, 
silencing the whole assembly with a threatening of 
his chin. Lord Home next. Brockenholt beside 
him, his monocle glittering, a sneer twisted across 
his mouth like a painted grin, sure of himself, well 
in hand, with that air of power, of bigness beyond 
his mere bulk warping even old “ Eagle.” A group 
of masters, a sombre group, dignified, black-gowned, 
wobbling along behind, with a flower in their midst 
— Sophie! “Yes! that’s the girl! What’s she 


RANSOM 


41 


coming for? Do look at her, Mrs. Lang-Davies! 
Outrageous.’’ Every one standing up, tongues in 
leash. “ You’re on my ruddy feet. I told you she 
was a peach. You’re coarse!” 

They still remember that morning in the school. 
It was the first skirmish successfully encountered 
by Mrs. Luke in that long tribal war for precedence 
when she made Isabel give up her seat to Miss 
Wontner, whose presence had not been expected. 
“ Pray sit here, my daughter can stand quite well. 
Isabel . . . dear.” Miss Wontner, flicking a glance 
over the scandalized wives and their breadwinners, 
“ Thank you so much,” and sank down on the high- 
backed chair with a sure knowledge that the height 
of the dais would provide the school with a length 
of slender silken leg that should render the cere¬ 
mony less boring for them. It did. And Isabel, 
just behind Sophie, looked down on that living flame 
of hair, burning through the net of lace of the green 
and gold hat, saw the polished beauty of Sophie’s 
hands, the space of dead white lovely flesh of her 
bare neck, with the jade necklace riding it, gathered 
the entirety of her professional beauty to herself, 
and suddenly felt ashamed, standing there behind 
this costly treasured thing, feeling immediately the 
stupid inadequacy of hier white blouse and pleated 
cream skirt and white straw hat with the thread of 
green leaves round the brim, and thought, “ Oh! 
isn’t she beautiful! Isn’t she beautiful!” which was 
generous, and just like Isabel. But Brockenholt, 
three chairs to the left, twisting round to scorch the 
eyes probing his back, the twenty or more inquisi¬ 
tive injured eyes, caught sight of the white blouse 
and thin seventeen-year-old arms, and felt again, 


42 


RANSOM 


on the recognition of the girl in the window, a stab 
of pain that brought back to him at once all those 
queer haunting hunger-pangs, for whose satisfying 
he knew no food of heart or soul could at present 
be found. But Isabel, unaware of those quick eyes 
flashing over her, stood tall and proud and miserable 
behind Miss Wontner, wondering if she could make 
a hat like that with a bit of net and a handful of 
lace. But when it came later for Brockenholt to 
reply, to make his short speech, the absurd thought 
of that pathetic being in the white blouse behind his 
mistress’s chair being hurt by the bitter quiet things 
he had to say, had meant to say, somehow made 
him, to his own surprise, snap the arrows of his old 
bitterness, and speak simply and generously, leaning 
over his chair, turning now and again with his bril¬ 
liant and captivating smile to old “ Eagle ” or Lord 
Home and the men beside him, his eyes mocking 
good-naturedly the sea of faces of the school before 
him. This was the sort of chap, the school thought. 
None of your pomposity. One of themselves, out 
for a rag, equal to old “ Eagle,” a sportsman. And 
when he sat down they stamped and clapped and 
bellowed. In Court afterwards they surged about 
him, and, completely at home, sure, he pushed his 
way amongst them as unselfconscious as any of 
them. 

But Mrs. Luke, dabbing fretfully at her over¬ 
heated forehead, smiled in the approved Marlton 
fashion upon Miss Wontner who had thanked her 
for the chair. 

“ Not at all. Not at all. One’s only too pleased 
as a connection of the College to assist a visitor in 
any way.” 


RANSOM 


43 


They’d accepted Brockenholt — the school had 
accepted him. He’d behaved most admirably. 
After all, one never knew, did one? Of course, Mrs. 
Brayham would take her standpoint. Nevertheless 
the tide had turned for the time being. It was a 
chance. 

“ My husband, Mrs. — er — Mrs.-” 

“ Miss Wontner.” 

“ Of course. How names slip from one’s mem¬ 
ory, do they not? My husband held a responsible 
position for many years as Master of Music in the 
College. If you are staying down here Miss — er, 
Miss Wontner, perhaps one afternoon — for tea — 
our house is ridiculously small — but — and if Mr. 
Brockenholt and Mr. — Mr.-” 

“Maude.” 

“Ah! yes! Mr. Maude — cared to — four 
o’clock, you know.” 

Would she? Would she? and Sophie, wickedly 
innocent: 

“ But of course, how nice of you.” 

“ Not at all. Not at all. Most delighted,” and 
Mrs. Luke, having explained the geography of her 
domain, swept from the hall, her husband trailing 
behind, and Isabel with her arm through his, whis¬ 
tling beneath her breath, as it were, that extremely 
popular song: 

“Oh, Honey, when the silver moon is gleaming. . .” 

Mrs. Brayham meeting Mrs. Luke at the gates, 
remarked: 

“ I see you were caught! I feared so! So obvious, 
I do declare. As if we wish to know her. I’m glad 
to think we still have our pride and can keep our¬ 
selves to ourselves.” 




44 


RANSOM 


“ She was merely thanking me for Isabel's chair," 
said Mrs. Luke. 

“Creature!" was Mrs. Brayham’s reply. 

But Mrs. Luke said nothing. She was one up. 

And at lunch, Miss Wontner, after two cocktails 
and a kiss from James Brockenholt, told him: 

“ We really must go, Jimmy. It’ll be too damn 
funny for words." 

“ If her mind’s as broad as her body," said Mr. 
Carlo Maude, “ we might progress well. The 
daughter’s pretty. A chip off somebody else’s block, 
I suppose." 

But Brockenholt only scowled in answer. 


CHAPTER IV 


After lunch he went for a walk by himself. 
Sophie and Carlo were frankly bored. In despera¬ 
tion they had taken the car and gone out for the 
afternoon. 

“ We’ll see,” Carlo had said, “ if there’s any limit 
to the grass surrounding this blessed town. I’m sick 
of the sight of it already.” 

“ What are you going to do, Jimmy; coming 
too?” 

“ No.” 

“ Very well. Only don’t be maudlin at dinner.” 

Now he was on the road that led to the Forest. 
He chose that deep hidden place of trees like a 
wounded animal. With the gnarled trunks and dense 
foliage surrounding him, he would find solitude fit 
for his mood. There he could think. There he 
could be that other person roused again so abruptly 
into life. The moment he was alone that other 
personality was uppermost. With Sophie and Carlo 
his mind was occupied with the thoughts of his usual 
world, the world of sophistication and reality: with 
himself only, he was back among his memories. 

It is the memory of the years before the boy 
becomes man, the budding time, when the promise 
of power to come is bright, with the first realization 
of self, that lasts longest. Then the things of living 
are new and very wonderful; facts and illusion are in 
constant conflict, there are roads to step with first 
wonder beyond the crest of each hill. The smallest 
45 


46 


RANSOM 


of spoken words hold glamour, the ordinary action 
is pregnant with significance. Year by year the 
middle-aged, the old men, return to the green circuit 
of Lords and the posted football ground at Twicken¬ 
ham. In their hundreds they come, to wave their 
sticks, to crack their voices. Their time has slipped 
away. But there was a time, yes, there was a time, 
they tell you in the train, when men could tackle and 
drop and run, when fellows didn’t have any use for 
soft games, and when cricket was something like 
cricket. The young men sit and listen and smirk 
contentedly. They know the old men are rather 
futile and rather indecently excited. They nod and 
agree and add a necessary courtesy by the use of 
the all-covering epithet “ sir.” They think the old 
men a little silly. But in time they too will gossip 
in the train and search in the memories for the 
greater episodes, when Oxford crossed the line in 
the last two minutes, when England won by an 
inning and eighteen runs. Year by year the games 
are won, year by year in their thousands the old 
men cheer and lose their heads. Once or twice in 
the twelve-month they come to refresh their minds 
with their own lost youth. They can do what they 
like for that short time, they can lose restraint and 
rub shoulders with youth. It is the old man’s day. 
They drink greedily of the fountain and for a time 
are refreshed. 

So it was with Brockenholt, tramping the dusky 
forest corridors, re-living the former years, the bonds 
of which are very strong, whose memory dies not. 
And making his way in this unpeopled place he 
sought to examine his recovered individuality by 
his usual self. What had happened this morning in 


RANSOM 


47 


Hall? Where had been those ironic things he had 
meant to say? Why, against his inclination, had 
he been generous in his words? Had that girl in 
the white blouse, with the sweet face and skinny 
arms been the cause of that emotion? From sight 
of her had come that renunciation. He could make 
no accounting for it. It wasn’t what Sophie would 
have called “ softness.” It wasn’t that. He didn’t 
know this slip of a girl: he didn’t care for her. 
Didn’t care for her. She was just a pretty girl. 
But she wasn’t only pretty! If she was lovely, then 
Sophie was lovely too. Whence came this ridiculous 
sense of her presence, the sense of her innocency. 
Was it that? Innocency? A white frail dove of 
a thing, of a thought, winging out of the dark, brush¬ 
ing with white wings across his vision of things? 
Wings of innocence: white frail wings that promised 
new discovery along a path of light, hitherto unex¬ 
plored? Had he heard the beat of them before, 
caught sight before of such a pilgrim speeding the 
darkness? Had he? Had he? In those old 
unhappy days of adolescence before he’d stood on 
the station with his luggage that last day, that day 
of expulsion? Were there wings of such sort, in 
his thoughts, of that damned tobacco-girl? Will- 
o’-the-wisp of dreams, pale beckoning of the gleam. 
Denied — denied. “ I cried for bread,” he thought, 
“ they gave me stones.” And stones were hard, and 
he was hard: stones for a road to tread, but bread 
for hunger and the empty times. But the beast in 
him, that other ravenous creature of desire, yet un¬ 
satiated, long years yet from death, rose in rebellion, 
and he laughed to think a girl in a loose blouse and a 
cheap straw hat could hold his thoughts so long. Yet 


48 


RANSOM 


there were ways with women, his way, Carlo’s way. 
One had the experience. One knew. But then 
again that thought jolted him suddenly calm. He 
didn’t want her — that way! Want her? What 
was he talking about now? He didn’t want her. 
Good God, no. He was only — hungry! 

He walked on steadily. The movement seemed 
to clarify his mind. He walked fast, almost as if 
he was running from something that haunted him. 
There seemed no solution to this puzzle of what 
had happened to him. But he never before had 
allowed outside occurrences to direct him. He had 
carved his own way through life, with on occasions 
an almost cruel disregard of himself. He believed 
that he could direct his course. So far that belief 
had been justified. Now he was faced with some 
obscure difficulty. The first step, he decided, was 
to realize the nature of that difficulty. Things he 
had laughed at before now assumed a very real 
importance. Yet, on the other hand, he could still 
laugh at them. It was ridiculous to think that a 
girl in a dowdy blouse could influence him, but cer¬ 
tainly that was the only reason he could imagine for 
his attitude of the morning. Perhaps it was not so 
much the girl herself as his idea of her! Yes, that 
was getting nearer the truth. She symbolized some¬ 
thing, and that something must, by reason of its in¬ 
tensity of desire, be worthy of consideration. What 
was it? To consider that he must forget his ordi¬ 
nary self, and let this new self have full expression. 
What was it? A sense of intrigue? Good God, 
no, that was grotesque. A sense of her innocency? 
Perhaps, but it was more than that. Of her very 
obvious youth? Yes! He stopped at the thought 


RANSOM 


49 


and fumbled in his pocket for a pipe. He stuffed the 
tobacco into the bowl carefully. Yes, her youth. 
He’d seen her at the window that first night, when 
he’d been troubled a little, before his feelings had 
risen to this pitch. He’d wondered then what it was 
that had made her seem so fey, so remote. Now he 
knew. Well, then, if under the circumstances he 
felt interested in her — of course only that — didn’t 
that point to a tendency within himself? Wasn’t 
there a small craving within him to be young again? 
But how old was he? Thirty-eight. Generally 
speaking, he was young. He lit the pipe, drawing 
at it steadily. His argument had circled back to 
its beginning, unless — unless there were qualities, 
degrees of youth! To go further, how young did he 
want to be? Yes, that was the real question. But 
one thing he knew now, could therefore, if neces¬ 
sary, combat: his return to this place so filled with 
recollection and amazingly poignant vivid recollec¬ 
tion at that, had, as it were, split him in two. With 
Sophie he was James Brockenholt; alone with him¬ 
self and the vision of the girl at her window or in 
her white blouse, he was Black Brockenholt of 
eighteen. If that was so, which personality did he 
wish to assume, which was himself? 

And in a simple manner that decision was made, 
and from that moment the whole trend of his life 
was changed; that long conflict within him started, 
that long battle whose losses in years to come 
seemed gain. 

He walked back to the town, contented now 
that the first difficulty was recognized for what 
it was. The exercise had done him good; it had 
been a long time since he had experienced that deli- 


so 


RANSOM 


cious sensation of physical energy satisfied. He 
was a little warm, a little tired. His blood freely 
circulating excited his brain. Familiar landmarks 
awoke half-forgotten episodes. At the edge of the 
wood he looked down on the town beneath. The 
school buildings clustered together behind the screen 
of the stately elms. The open-air swimming bath 
was a bronze and silver sickle amongst the trees. 
Gentle swaying pillars of grey smoke issued from 
the red brick chimneys, and above five pigeons 
wheeled and slanted downwards. Beyond tier on 
tier the playing-fields rose, little green tablelands 
dotted with white figures. Now and again, through 
the quiet and mellow air, he could hear the elastic 
crack of bat meeting ball; subdued shoutings, the 
murmur of that boyish business over the grass. Still 
farther the downs stretched away. He watched 
the cloud-shadows sweep across this country of low 
hills and gentle valleys, this land scooped as it were 
by the dragging of the Maker’s fingers across a 
green-grey plateau, where little stunted trees, with 
backs to the wind, grip the light soil with tenacious 
roots; he saw the sarcen stones starring the down’s 
ancient shoulders and in places gathered in the hol¬ 
lows like old grey women; more distant still, like 
some solitary high temple worshipped by no hands 
but those of the shadows, the Four Mile Clump 
stabbed skywards, its trees atop harp-strings for the 
wind’s delight; grey in the evening sun the sheep 
ranged the slopes, and around all, the mighty scarred 
buttresses of Hackpen, Martinsell and Barbary 
Castle kept inviolate the sanctity of the downs. 

Walled within this magic circle of the hills he 
again, beyond himself, took part in those affairs 


RANSOM 


51 


within his vision. Now once more he was fielding 
in the sun or buckling his pads on to bat; or he was 
poised on a spring-board above the translucent 
tempting surface of the swimming pool; he was 
crossing the Court, his arms laden with buns; or 
trudging down town to devour ices. They came to 
him, those ghosts, tugging at his sleeve, peering up 
into his face; ghosts of his different selves that had 
been, ghosts of his laughters, ghosts of his tears. 
Who shall gainsay such visitants — memories like 
snatches of song, arising suddenly in the mind, and 
not to be refused? When the last night tops the 
hills and the day climbs no more to the zenith, 
do they come again, those fragile ghosts of tilings 
done, and wait for the last outgoing tremendous 
breath and the eyes’ last reproachful regard, saying, 
“ We are your tears. We are the ghosts of tears. 
And we will plead for you!” So at the end, when 
limbs that have stepped their thousand ways drown 
in the slumberous depths, ghosts of those dead selves 
may rise not against, but for, us, interceding, plead¬ 
ing for permission sometimes, but sometimes only, 
to return to the places of carnate life and the cruel 
dear things of earth. 

They came then to Brockenholt in exquisite 
torture. He was glad, yes, mighty glad, Sophie 
wasn’t with him. What woman could understand 
these passionate memories, how strongly, how 
strangely those ghostly hands touched his heart? 
I wish I were back again, he thought; I wish I 
were one of those little distant marionettes in white, 
my whole being intensified by the grip of my hands 
on a bat handle. I wish I could go back. I wish I 
could have another chance. 


52 


RANSOM 


But the very mention of Sophie’s name amid such 
thoughts made him feel self-conscious. I’m being 
an ass, he thought, I’m getting —“ soft.” But the 
desire to live a little longer amidst this new yet 
old existence prompted him to descend the hill 
rapidly and make his way to the school itself. This, 
he decided, as he entered the gates, shall be the last 
time I indulge myself. The quadrangle was deserted, 
the classrooms empty. As he passed the lodge the 
porter, spying through the window, remembering 
the pound note rewarding his services of the morning, 
dived frantically for his coat and helmet. He caught 
up with Brockenholt in the middle of Court. 

“ You’ll be wishing to see round the College, sir?” 
he asked. Brockenholt glared at him. “ Of course, 
sir, if . . .” He fidgeted under Brockenholt’s steady 
regard. 

“ In your hurry, porter,” Brockenholt said at 
last, “ you have loosened a button on your tunic.” 
The porter glanced down at his prosperous frontage. 
The button was hanging by a thread. “ I am philo¬ 
sophical this afternoon, porter.” 

“ Yes, sir!” 

“In ordinary circumstances, porter, I should 
commit you to everlasting fiame. I realize your 
intentions are admirable. You have a sense of 

self-preservation, symbolized by-” he held out 

half a crown. “ That will repay you for your 
trouble.” 

“ Thank you kindly, sir.” 

“ And now,” said Brockenholt, his sneer across his 
face, “ having fulfilled my side of the bargain, I’m 
entitled to a final sentiment, eh?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 



RANSOM 


53 


“ Then, porter, go to hell.” 

“ Certainly, sir,” said the porter, and retired to 
the cup of tea his wife was preparing in the back 
room of the lodge. 

“ He ain’t half a queer one!” he told his wife as 
she stirred his three lumps of sugar into the brackish 
brew. “ He’s a one, he is, and no mistake!” 

“That’s as may be!” said Mrs. Porter. “He’s 
’andsome enough for two.” 

“ Ho, you wimmen,” said the porter, which shows 
that he too was something of a philosopher. 

But as the porter’s throat glowed gratefully with 
the tea, Brockenholt passed through the arches of 
the left side of the Court and looked about him. 
Directly before him was the door of a classroom. 
He rattled the door-knob and entered. Good God, 
but the memories were stronger than ever in this 
whitewashed room, with its rows of oaken, chipped 
desks. It was almost identically the same. He 
moved across to where a long narrow desk stood 
by the wall. It was then he made the discovery. 
Carved in the centre were the straggling initials 
“ J. B.” Somebody else’s handiwork was scratched 
across them, but the token was clearly visible. It 
was the concrete seal set to his memories. And 
suddenly he realized that at this desk, twenty or 
so years back, he’d sat digging away with a pen¬ 
knife, probably under the cover of a piece of blot¬ 
ting paper. Yes! that was exactly how he had per¬ 
petrated this carving for immortality. It all came 
back ... the crowded room ... the murmur 
of voices ... the master’s black gown and bark¬ 
ing voice. . . . Lord, Lord, how vivid! But 
disastrously he realized, more important still, the 


54 


RANSOM 


poignant fact that never again could he sit and 
carve surreptitiously. It had taken a week to com¬ 
plete the initials. It had been a boy’s prank. A 
boy’s! And now, now he was thirty-eight, he was 
a man. Never before had he thought of the pos¬ 
sibility of age overtaking him. Now he knew it 
would, in twenty, thirty years’ time. But the score 
of the years was irrelevant: it was the sudden 
amazing realization that counted. The boy was 
dead, the man was man. But the school itself was 
so young: it was the only thing he could think of, 
untouched spiritually by the progress of time. Fifty 
years ahead, boys’ laughter would still echo in Court, 
boys’ footsteps still clatter down corridors: there 
would be shouts and angers and lamentations a 
hundred years ahead, all young, all new. Masters 
would die, trees would grow old and branches be 
lopped away; new bricks would strengthen the then 
worn masonry; fresh gravel would be scattered 
across the quadrangle; but the place itself would 
know no change. Its life would always be young. 
When I’m old, he thought, there will be only this 
place still youthful. We live, we die, we are for¬ 
gotten. Only this thirty acres knows the secret of 
the first years. It can never die. It can never 
really grow old. With that knowledge came that 
other terrible revelation, he himself could never be 
eighteen again. Even the ticking of his wrist-watch 
seemed ominous, counting away the seconds of this 
very time of maturity, ticking away his life, every¬ 
body’s life. He’d lived those previous years too 
fully, too busily to realize before how inevitably the 
thing must come to pass. He must recapture some¬ 
thing of that early time before it was too late. And 


RANSOM 


55 


he was hungry. But now he knew what bread would 
satisfy that desire — youth. And there flashed 
before him strangely enough a vision of a white 
blouse and thin seventeen-year-old arms; a window 
lit in the night, a halo of soft hair, two hands on a 
sill, and eyes turned to the distant ridge of Barbary. 

And from across the Court there came the jiggling 
tuneful tune of: 

“ Oh, Honey, when the silver moon is gleaming, 
Stars a-dreaming, 

Oh, 1 want cher, Yes! I want cher! y> 

To his horror and disgust he found his eyes 
smarting. Damn it, he thought, I must get out of 
this — quick! And he was more glad than ever 
that Sophie wasn’t with him. 

But before he left he put his head inside the door 
of the lodge. 

“ Porter.” 

There was a scrambling and bumping in the room 
at the back of the house. 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“You took my remark in the right way, you 
know-” 

“ Why of course, sir.” 

“ Good evening, porter!” 

“ Good evening to you, sir.” 

In the kitchen Mrs. Porter banged the teacups 
into their respective places on the sideboard. 

“Ho! You men!” she said. 



CHAPTER V 


That night, in the billiard-room of the Marlton 
Arms, while Brockenholt chalked his cue and Sophie 
reached across the table to make another of her 
miraculous misses, Carlo Maude asked: 

“ Find the haunts of your misspent youth intrigu¬ 
ing this afternoon, Brock?” 

“ I did,” said Brockenholt shortly, and turned 
to flick the pointer on the score-board. 

“ It seems to me,” mused Carlo, “ that the dif¬ 
ference between a public-house and a public school 
is that whereas in the former the thing imbibed 
passes, in the latter the thing imbibed remains as 
a source for chronic and mental indigestion.” 

“ Oh yes!” said Brockenholt. “ Good God, she’s 
missed again! Sophie, joy of my heart, you put the 
wrong side on.” 

“ These balls,” replied Miss Wontner, “ are de¬ 
cidedly square. I defy any one to make more than 
fifteen on this miniature alpine range.” 

Whereupon Brockenholt made a break of thirty. 
But as he moved about the table, Sophie by his 
side, Carlo, his lips pressed together and scratching 
his cheek with a stubby forefinger, considered 
deeply. Now what had happened to Brock? 
Where had been all those fine slaps he’d promised 
to deliver in his speech? Why this morning had 
he spoken as he had? He had collapsed like a 
pricked balloon. Decidedly something had hap¬ 
pened. Was it possible there was a chink in the 
seemingly impregnable armour of James Brocken- 
56 


RANSOM 


57 


holt? A weakness that could be used? It was too 
obvious and long lasting a mood to be caused solely 
by the return to this dingy hole of a place. 

And then Sophie asked: 

“ When are we going to tea with Mrs. Rumble- 
Dumble?” 

“ Who?” 

“ The old cat who sat next to me this morning.” 

“ I don’t know.” 

Ah! Brock had missed that shot. It was an 
easy shot too, the sort he always brought off. 

“ You don’t generally miss those, Brock!” 

“ Don’t I?” 

No, thought Carlo, you don’t. Now I wonder. 

“ The daughter gave up her chair to you, didn’t 
she, Sophie? Nice of her, I thought. Nice girl 
too in her way. Where do they live?” 

“ Your turn, Carlo,” said Brockenholt. “ Get on 
with it.” 

“Ah! yes,” said Mr. Maude. “My shot.” He 
miscued purposely. He must follow this trail at 
once. “Nice girl! Didn’t you think so, Brock?” 

“I didn’t see her!” 

“ No?” 

Well, then why was it Brock’s eyes had lit up so 
keenly when he’d caught sight of that white blouse 
behind Sophie’s chair? Oh yes, he’d seen that, had 
Carlo. There were few things he didn’t see. The 
game of watching was a fine art to Mr. Maude. So 
perhaps, after all, Brock’s preoccupation was caused 
by the very obvious. Well, well. 

“ I thought she was a nice girl,” said Carlo. 
“A pretty girl, though dowdy, of course. I shall 
cultivate her.” 


58 


RANSOM 


“ Good luck to you, then,” was Brockenholt’s 
reply. 

But later, sitting on the edge of his bed, Carlo, 
one foot in his pyjamas, a cigarette in one hand, 
pondered deeply. He sat there for perhaps ten 
minutes or so till the cigarette was burnt low. As 
eventually he pulled on his pyjamas he seemed to 
be enjoying, judging by the grin across his face, a 
very good joke with himself. From down the pas¬ 
sage Sophie’s voice rang out: 

“ Night-night, everybody.” 

The grin left Carlo’s lips. He tapped his teeth 
with his thumbnail. If that was the case, then he 
wouldn’t be surprised ... no, he wouldn’t be a 
bit surprised if, after all — with a little tact, a 
little care . . . 

“ Night-night, everybody.” 

“ Nighto, Sophie.” 

Outside the moon rose high and white in the 
wide sky, staring down on to the huddle of roofs 
of the little town. In one room, curled up like a 
kitten, Sophie slept soundly and immediately. At 
one end of the passage Brockenholt lay upon his 
back in the darkness, gazing at the light of a street 
lamp pale yellow on the ceiling, seeing the moon¬ 
light cut the room into a chequered pattern, white 
and black, black as pitch — white as — as a white 
silk . . . blouse? 

At the other end of the passage did Mr. Maude 
sleep or did he too lie awake? Did the darkness 
quite conceal the grin on his face, or perhaps there 
was no grin at all, but only the distortion of the 
moonlight? Or perhaps he slept? 


CHAPTER VI 


From her bedroom window Isabel could see the 
height of Barbary Castle, seven miles away, a wedge 
of intenser darkness, jutting into the first deep 
moonless phase of the night. She never went to 
bed without sitting for a few minutes before the 
window and reading the downs. At this magic 
hour those empty grassland spaces seemed written 
over with romances far more alluring than those 
to be found in books. At least she thought so. 
The road to Hackpen slid past beneath, threading 
its journey across the ridges to where it rose abruptly 
to mount the Hackpen Hill, then it dropped sheer 
to the next great ledge of the country. True, in 
broad daylight the road ran past Hackpen, on to 
Wooton Bassington, through Wooton Mary, and 
curved into Swindon thirty miles away. Even then 
it continued to other busy places, black with people, 
brutal with noise of them and their doings. An 
ordinary road, used ordinarily — in daytime. Oh, 
she knew that well enough. But at night, when 
the moon climbed and the stars pin-pricked the 
night’s ceiling, when the sheep-bells tinkled drow¬ 
sily and the grass and stunted bushes slept, there 
came no motors along the road, no carts, no hurry¬ 
ing footsteps, only a great silence heralding the 
everlasting tramp of imaginary creatures, and the 
road that ran in daylight, as all roads to destinations, 
then stopped short at the bluff of Hackpen: left the 
bonds of earth and soared into the sky. It was her 
59 


60 RANSOM 

especial road, thronged at this hour with kings of 
her fantasy. 

It had been a scrambling sort of a week. She’d 
seen the great man four days ago in Hall, and 
afterwards thrice in the street. It was true, he 
was awfully thrilling. She’d not been able to see 
his face when he spoke to the school in Hall, but 
she’d seen the response on the hundreds of other 
faces, listening. Down town she’d only caught 
sight of his broad square back. Her subjects had 
accepted him. It must be exciting to be as bad 
as he was. That was a funny thing, how nice a 
certain sort of wickedness was. But perhaps it 
wasn’t so nice when you knew the details of it: 
only exhilarating in theory, perhaps? You’d always 
learnt that as the bay-tree, the wicked flourish. 
Well, you’d got to accept that, of course. But 
perhaps he wasn’t so terribly wicked, when you 
knew him. What were the sort of things he did? 
Perhaps he cheated people and that was why he 
was so enormously rich, or ill-treated his servants 
and employees. He looked relentless enough to do 
either of those things. But if that was true then 
he’d be in prison. Everybody seemed to know so 
much about him and she was the only one in igno¬ 
rance. Mother was very secretive. She’d asked 
her: 

“ Why is every one making such a fuss, Mum?” 

“He’s not the sort of person that respectable 
people know.” 

“ Why? What’s he done?” 

And mother had drawn her lips together and: 

“ He was expelled!” 

Expelled! What for? She hadn’t liked to 


RANSOM 


61 


question further. When Mum looked like that 
it meant you had to shut up. You mustn’t ever 
worry Mum, because her heart was so awfully 
wobbly and uncertain, like an old clock, she sup¬ 
posed. But — expelled! That was terrible but 
she wanted details. One could guess all sorts of 
things but that was much worse than knowing. 
Why wouldn’t people tell you things? There were 
a lot of mysteries. One knew all about children and 
that sort of thing in a hazy way. That was a part 
of love, a part of marriage. A jolly part, to have 
little children who looked like you, whom you kept 
warm and close and comforted before they were 
born and washed and loved for ever afterwards. 
That was beautiful. But somehow there was some¬ 
thing that could be wrong about even that. There 
were a whole set of rules governing the procedure. 
It was just because people wouldn’t tell you what 
you wanted to know that beastly misgivings came 
to you sometimes. You didn’t marry till you loved 
some one very much. She supposed Mum and Dad 
loved each other: they were married. But they 
didn’t kiss each other and in a queer way they were 
strangers to one another. Sometimes they quar¬ 
relled, and it was horrid. As for Brockenholt . . . 
what was the quality of his wickedness? Even the 
Ten Commandments left you still guessing, and they 
were supposed to cover the gamut of sin. “ Thou 
shalt not covet thy neighbour’s house, thou shalt 
not covet thy neighbour’s wife, nor his servant, 
nor his maid, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor anything 
that is his.” Covet meant hankering after. She’d 
broken that Commandment today. Miss Wont- 
ner’s hat! She mustn’t think about net and lace 


62 


RANSOM 


and ribbon any more. If you went on thinking, 
you went on sinning. Did Brockenholt covet 
things? Very likely. But what? His neighbour’s 
house or wife? Silly! His servant, his maid, his 
ox, or his ass? It really was rather funny. If 
Brockenholt coveted the last two items! How 
awfully difficult it must be for farmers . . . stop 
that line of thought! “ Thou shalt not steal . . . 
murder . . . commit adultery.” What precisely 
was that? The last? They were always being sug¬ 
gestive about marriage. It was indelicate. It was 
full of shame. It offended her. Why couldn’t 
they leave people alone and let them just be happy. 
Everything else seemed happy, like she herself was. 
Trees and little birds and urchins: sheep on the 
downs, dragon-flies — even wasps, in their own irri¬ 
tating way. They must have been very bad — 
all Brockenholts?—those Israelites to make God 
give Moses such a terrible iron set of rules for people 
to follow. Unless they chose to go to hell; and that 
would be terrible, to go to hell, because there 
wouldn’t be any Barbary Castles there, or strange 
trees perched up into the sky from a hill-top, or 
knock-kneed lambs in spring, or the touch of rain 
and the wind’s shouting. There wouldn’t even be a 
road to walk in dreams. Why didn’t people explain? 

But she felt tired of asking herself all these ques¬ 
tions. Outside the road gleamed white in the young 
moon’s rising radiance. There was a scrabbly 
noise outside in the passage, which meant Dad 
was going to bed; in a few minutes Mum would 
come up — you always knew which was Mum by 
the way the stairs creaked. She’d have to jump 
into bed then and put the light out. Mum was 


RANSOM 


63 


frightened of candles, and she mustn’t do anything 
that would be bad for that pumping heart. But 
she’d play Romans tonight. She’d look down on 
the road and wait, wait. Soon would come the 
distant rhythmic tramp of marching feet, swinging 
down the road, tramp, tramp, tramp. Out of the 
dark they’d come four abreast, their spears smiting 
high, their kilts swaying, their harness rattling. 
Voices foreign and harsh, subdued, would croak 
down that swinging column, hoofs would patter, 
and the Roman Eagle, proud, aloft, dancing along 
in front. Sometimes they would sing, drenching 
the air with their song’s steadfast beating, marching 
into the darkness, out of the sky, past her window, 
soldiers of dreams. 

And while Isabel waited at her window, Miss 
Wontner, a cigarette burning close to her lips, her 
eyes half-shut behind the whorls of smoke, sitting 
in the porch of the Marl ton Arms, tugged at James 
Brockenholt’s coat-tail as he moved past her and 
asked: 

“ Now where in the world are you off to, Jimmy?” 

But he jerked her fingers free and left her. 

Therefore Miss Wontner returned indoors and 
suggested to Mr. Carlo Maude that a walk over 
the downs might be as good a way as any other 
of spending an evening in a place as skittish as 
a negro’s corpse. To this Mr. Maude agreed. It 
was not often that he had the opportunity of Sophie’s 
company alone. Brockenholt saw to that. Brock- 
enholt saw to too much, to Mr. Maude’s way of 
thinking. There’d come a time, though . . . 

Maude could wait for that. It was a bad mistake 


64 


RANSOM 


ever to lay your cards on the table: the art of 
existence was in holding up your hand, watching, 
waiting. . . . 

Said Miss Wontner, as they skirted the Common 
— Carlo had chosen to go this way, “ Better view,” 
he’d told her — and walked side by side through 
the moonlight: 

“ How long are we going to stay down here, Carlo? 
We’ve been here a week already.” 

He lit a cigarette before replying, cautiously: 

“I haven’t asked Brock!” And then, “One 
hasn’t seen much of him, eh?” 

“ But what’s Jimmy got to do with it?” 

“ Everything — as usual.” 

“Poor old Carlo!” she murmured, and slipped 
a hand through his arm. He looked down at her, 
trying to catch sight of the expression on her face. 
“ Poor old Carlo!” coming from Sophie might mean 
anything. They walked on in silence. There’s just 
the chance, he was thinking. The house is at the far 
edge of the common, isn’t it? If his surmises were 
correct, there should be plenty of fun when the 
fireworks went up. But there was no telling what 
Sophie might know, might be thinking. Meanwhile, 
a preparing of the ground might not be amiss. 

“ I’ve found a new flat,” he told her. 

She nodded her head, and still he couldn’t see 
her face in the dark, beneath the brim of her hat. 

“ It’s a nice little place. Sermyn Street. I’m still 
settling in. When we get back you’ll have to come 
round and see it. I’d like your advice.” 

That was a false step. The hat brim lifted up 
for a second and then dropped again. So he wanted 
her advice, did he? That was the most curious thing 


RANSOM 


65 


about Carlo — his taste. It was most excellent, he 
had an eye for intrinsic values. Even high prices 
didn’t influence that incongruous and real appreci¬ 
ation of things for themselves. Everything about 
him was immaculate; the Jew in him? And Carlo 
wanted her advice. That was ridiculous. But she 
answered: 

“ That would be nice, Carlo.” 

“ I hope you’ll come often,” he said. 

“ As often as I can.” 

Silence again. I’ll drop that lead, he thought, 
and try again. They were now on the Wooton 
and Bassington Road, the downs on either side, the 
moon high. 

“ How long have you known Jimmy?” he asked 
suddenly. 

“ What? Oh, Jimmy? ’Bout five years.” 

“And how long are you going to know him?” 
he wanted to ask but instead: “ It’s a long time.” 

“ I suppose it is!” 

“ Lingfields is doing well. It’s like Brock, to 
make a success of everything.” 

“ He’s clever enough.” 

“ Urn.” 

No good either. He’d try a frontal attack. It 
would hold the element of surprise. She wouldn’t 
expect it. 

“ What’s wrong with Brock?” 

He felt her arm against his give a quick jerk, an 
abrupt tension of the fingers on his sleeve. Ah! that 
had found its mark. He must follow it up. 

“ He’s upset about something, I think,” he con¬ 
tinued. “ You’ve noticed him lately? I suppose 
coming back has its disadvantages, especially when 


66 


RANSOM 


the cheers aren’t quite so loud as anticipated. Still, 
what else could he expect? I thought we were going 
to have an amusing time down here, didn’t you? 
Instead Brock growls his way through each day and 
then disappears for hours at a time at night. 
Where’s he gone?” 

“ I don’t know, how should I?” 

Irritation in that response. She was vexed, then. 
Probably she didn't know where he’d gone. Could 
she guess? 

“ Oh, well! I thought you might. He tells you 
most things.” 

“ Don’t be absurd. Carlo. He never tells me any¬ 
thing. Why should he?” 

“ I don’t know, my dear girl. I don’t care where 
he goes. I don’t suppose you do — do you?” 

“ No more than you.” 

This was better. Another twist to the screw. 

“ I haven’t seen anything down here to attract 
him.” 

“ It doesn’t bother me if there is.” 

“ Doesn’t it? Not with most people — but with 
Brock?” 

She stopped and snatched her hand from his arm. 
It made him smile to see the anger surging through 
her tiny body. She’s not red-haired for nothing, he 
thought; this is illuminating. 

“ What do you mean?” she asked deliberately. 

“ What I mean,” he replied, “ is that you’re as 
hard as nails, Sophie, and you know generally just 
where you are, except with Brock. He’s a match 
for you, and you know it. He’s got you, Sophie, and 
my God, he can hold you.” 

“ You mean-” 



RANSOM 


67 


“ Just that. You’re as near to being in love with 
him as you’ve ever been with any one.” 

The shaft flew true. Somehow she felt then as 
if that shrewd arrow of his mind had pierced deep 
into her heart, that if the shaft should ever be 
withdrawn, yet still would remain the barb, fester¬ 
ing there, a never-to-be-forgotten pain. Love? A 
poor draggled thing, with tinsel wings crumpled, 
and a sneer behind its sentimental grimacing mask; 
a grotesque drab figure, lewd in its assumed finery, 
a treacherous, beckoning, empty thing, that mocked 
you. Love? Yes, something that happened to you, 
that led you down a rosy path that ended — where? 
She knew well. Respectability! Wives! Poor 
futile creatures who tried to keep up a great appear¬ 
ance of satisfaction, while all the time, down the 
melancholy dowdy years, their hearts ached for the 
love that had cheated them. Husbands! hot with 
passion for — three years! and then — oh, don’t tell 
mel She’d seen them, known them, even helped 
them! Well, it wasn’t the wives’ fault. How could 
they help it? Men wanted children, inflicted them 
on the bodies they owned, and then grew tired of the 
patient limbs and widening hips, the aging flesh, 
broken with the rotten pain of that giving. Men! 
they’d rob you if they could, steal and cheat and 
desert. They deserved what they got. You’d got 
to be hard. And Carlo now said she loved Brocken- 
holt, who was worse than most of them, who knew 
which side of a bargain was the best for him. Had 
Jimmy tricked her too, outwitted her? Telling her 
how sensible she was all these years, that they knew 
what was what, yet knowing all the time that he’d 
made her love him? 


68 


RANSOM 


So, standing there, under the moon, she clenched 
her little fists and with the angry tears burning her 
eyes: 

“ Damn you, Carlo,” she said. “ Damn you! I 
hate you!” 

And Carlo Maude, too clever to touch her then, 
his first objective gained, replied: 

“ Sophie, my dear, I’m sorry. I was only pulling 
your leg. Of course you’re fond of Brock, like we all 
are. But it’s nothing more, I know that. We’ll 
stroll back, eh?” 

But the barb was fixed. Already she could feel, 
as it were, the poison of it in her blood. So Carlo 
thought she was in love with James Brockenholt, 
did he? Well, she wasn’t. She wasn’t. Nothing 
like it. Only if Jimmy went and didn’t come back, 
what then? What would happen, really happen? 
What sort of a loss would it be? Things would be 
queer without Jimmy somewhere in the background. 
But something had happened to him and it affected 
her. Well, if it did, she could cut the bonds that 
held them and begin again — elsewhere. One could 
always begin again, nearly always. Perhaps Carlo 
would be worth while consideration: he was kind — 
in a way; he was fond of her — in a way; he’d 
waited. Maybe a change would do her good. But it 
was tiresome. Jimmy was haven of a sort, and rid¬ 
ing the storm alone, outside the bar, was a poor 
game. She’d had enough of that in her time. Never¬ 
theless, when she’d broken with Jimmy . . . when 
she’d broken. ... It was better to face things 
squarely: would a breaking be very hard? Lord, 
no — only tiresome! Only- 

Carlo was talking. 


RANSOM 


69 


. . They’re generally glad enough to part 
when you show ’em the money. A lot of these old 
fools don’t know the value of the stuff they’ve got.” 

“ Yes,” she said, realizing dimly that Carlo was 
talking of a refectory table, newly purchased; but 
in her mind: this blessed life’s just tramping miles 
and miles; as soon as you’ve found a seat somebody 
comes up and pushes you off. I’ll have it out with 
Jimmy when we get back. 

“. . .In exactly the same way I picked up those 
Delft plaques. The ones with the girl’s face and 
blue thing on her head, which you called a bathing 
cap. They’re good, those are. It’s a gift, of course, 
spotting stuff. You can’t acquire it, though you 
can learn the devil of a lot through listening to 
experienced men. Nobody ever taught me, though.” 
Why didn’t Carlo keep quiet for ten minutes; she 
wanted to think. The road was horribly gritty, too: 
bits of stone kept sneaking down between your foot 
and shoe. Yes, she’d have it out with Jimmy. 
Likely enough, there wasn’t anything wrong at all, 
at least not much. Still, a good brisk row sharpened 
things up a bit. 

“ Hallo,” exclaimed Carlo. There was a ring of 
surprise in his voice: his fingers gripped her arm 
just above the elbow. Ahead the road stretched 
white beneath the moonlight; shadows of trees 
cut it here and there, making bridges of shadows 
that crossed its course. A window, brightly lit, 
in the side of a small cottage obscure amidst the 
trees surrounding it, seemed suspended in the air. 
Against* that yellow flag in the night, stood a girl, 
her head and shoulders clearly visible, leaning 
across the sill, the night wind plucking at the wilful 


70 


RANSOM 


wisps of hair across her cheeks. Beneath, just off 
the road, the tall thick density of a man’s shadow 
was visible. The window fell back suddenly into 
its surrounding darkness. As the man moved away 
they heard him singing softly, huskily, almost to 
himself, 

“ Oh, Honey, when the silver moon is gleaming, 
Stars a-drearning, 

Oh, I want cher, Yes! I want cherl” 

They waited till he’d swung out of sight, watching 
him walking rapidly back to the town. Neither of 
them said a word. There seemed nothing to say. 
But Carlo Maude stuck his tongue in that side of 
his cheek, the farthest side, this time, from Miss 
Wontner. His eyes upraised, he and the moon 
seemed to enjoy a confidential and wholly delightful 
joke. 


CHAPTER VII 


When they returned to the Marl ton Arms they 
found Brockenholt sitting in the porch. He took 
the cigar from his lips as they approached and stood 
up. 

“ Been for a stroll?” 

Maude, the curve of a smile tilting the corners of 
his mouth, replied: 

“ Yes. ‘ On such a night as this . . . * Brock. 
Sophie and I have been wandering beneath the 
moon. The ardent lover under such circumstances 
suits me admirably. You should try it yourself.” 

Brockenholt, with a wicked grin, examined the end 
of his cigar, and then, raising his right eyebrow, 
regarded the other with open insolence. 

“ I see. Been making hay while the moon shines, 
eh, Carlo? You always were fond of other people’s 
— cattle!” 

It was Sophie who stepped in between them, her 
face very white, one slender arm thrust across 
Maude’s waistcoat, an inadequate barrier to avert 
collision. It was typical of Brockenholt to defend 
himself by attacking, to cut the ground from under 
their feet. Even at that moment she couldn’t help 
admiring him. He’d got the nerve for anything. 
She pushed Carlo towards the door. He resisted, 
taking her wrists in his two hands and almost 
lifting her aside. His florid, handsome face was 
dark with anger; on his cheekbones two sullen 
71 


72 


RANSOM 


crimson patches bespoke the passion that choked 
him too completely for its utterance. 

“ Go in, Carlo/’ she whispered. “ Go in, for 
God’s sake. Leave this to me.” 

He dropped her wrists, hesitated, and then 
nodded. The sound of Brockenholt’s chuckle 
reached him in the hall. He stopped and faced 
about, took a step towards the door and then turned 
again and ran upstairs. His hand trembled as 
he lit the gas in his room. He stood for some time 
looking at his reflection in the glass and then he 
smiled and prepared to go to bed. 

In the porch Brockenholt was sitting down, puff¬ 
ing calmly at his cigar. Standing by the lintel 
Sophie could see at the glow of each puff the golden 
mask of his face, his eyes deep, narrowed, mocking 
up at her. 

“ That was unspeakable,” she said at last, her 
voice very steady. 

The cigar glowed, grew dead, glowed. His face 
appeared in sudden flashes out of the darkness, 
yet all the time she knew those bitter eyes of his 
were turned towards her. She could hear his breath, 
soft and regular, out of the blackness around him. 

“ Why did you do that, Jimmy?” 

The cigar end described a circle. He was, she 
knew, making a gesture of query. 

“ Because,” she heard him say, “ because I resent 
any one attempting to spy upon me.” 

She started. So he’d seen them, had thought 
they’d followed him. But even so, why didn’t he 
laugh the affair away? Things like this had hap¬ 
pened before. It had never made any difference 
— then. 


RANSOM 73 

“ We didn’t follow you,” she replied, “ we just 
came upon you.” 

“ Ah!” 

“ You must believe me, Jimmy. It was as great 
a surprise to us, certainly to me, as — it must have 
been to you!” She couldn’t stop herself stabbing 
once at the imperturbable insolent shadow before 
her. 

“ Really?” 

She must take him in hand, at once. This mood 
of his was dangerous. She approached the cigar end 
and reaching out with a hand found his knee and 
knelt beside him. He made no movement. 

“ Jimmy,” she said. “ Oh, Jimmy, don’t be idiotic. 
You know I’m not a liar. We didn’t follow you; 
we didn’t want to see you. It just happened. That 
is all.” 

There was no answer. She took hold of the 
lapels of his coat and shook him gently. 

“ Answer me, Jimmy.” 

She could feel his breath upon her hair. She 
moved nearer to him. He’d always liked her hair, 
the subtle scent of it: once he’d told her it intoxi¬ 
cated him. She could feel the warmth of his great 
body. 

“ Answer me, Jimmy.” 

He stirred, and the cigar swung over her head. 
He drew deeply at it. 

“ I accept your statement.” 

“ Then it’s all right, Jimmy?” 

He patted her gently on the shoulder and she crept 
still closer to him and slipped an arm around his 
neck, pulling gently, her face turned up to his. His 
lips brushed her forehead. 


74 


RANSOM 


“ Let’s go back, Jimmy dear. I’m tired of this 
place. It’s terribly dull. I — I don’t like it.” 

He was looking down at her and to her surprise 
she saw his lips twitching and his forehead twisted 
in wrinkles of anxiety. 

As he spoke her whole body stiffened. She felt 
suddenly cold, frozen on the moment, fear throbbing 
in her pulses. 

“ I don’t think I can, Sophie,” he was saying; 
“ I don’t think I can.” 

His hand was still patting her shoulder. It was 
as if he was trying to comfort her, to comfort him¬ 
self. The town was very quiet, sleeping. Even 
the sounds of the house above them were gone. 
Window by window the lights had disappeared. 
She shivered slightly and clung to his coat. In her 
extremity the holding of him thus was some small 
comfort, as if by gripping the cloth tightly she 
could hold him, keep him there, always. The cigar 
was out, tossed upon the ground. He’d smoked it 
and thrown it away. There remained ashes; and in 
time they too would be scattered, lost. It had been 
a costly cigar. Now, it was finished with. Some¬ 
thing dreadful was happening: something she’d 
always known must happen sooner or later; some¬ 
thing she’d prided herself that she’d be ready to face, 
to conquer like the other things she’d conquered. 
You’d got to be hard. Or was she just imagining 
all this? Was it this grim country, so desolate, so 
empty that had frightened her? She must ask of 
him, of course, what was troubling him. Only — 
perhaps, it wouldn’t matter asking him just now, this 
moment. She’d wait a little. He was here now, 
patting her shoulder, his breath upon her hair. 


RANSOM 


75 


Perhaps something would fix them here for always, 
so she could be safe with his arm across her shoul¬ 
ders. She didn’t want to begin again. It would be 
cold outside and lonely. And yet-— 

“ What is it, Jimmy?” 

He raised himself in the chair and pulled her 
round before him, his hands on her shoulders, his 
eyes fixed on hers. She bit her lip and smiled 
gallantly back at him. 

“ Old sinner,” she said. “ What is it?” 

He looked down at her for a long time before he 
answered. It seemed he was trying to discover in 
that small white face before him an answer to some 
question that was hurting him. 

“ Just that,” he said quietly. “ I don’t think I 
can.” 

Somehow she couldn’t say anything, couldn’t 
take her eyes from his. There was a fascination 
that held them both in the horror of the situation. 
They watched each other, gripped by a mutual 
anguish that kept them there, so still, so paralysed 
by this thing that had happened. She’d prepared 
against this day. She’d been so sure she was ready 
for it. But she’d not expected it to be like this. 
It was so long drawn out. It would, she knew, be 
much better to snap this tension quickly, to get it 
over. Yet something so disastrous had come about 
that she was lost. She struggled to regain control 
and then she scrambled to her feet, the movement 
bringing her back to things to be faced. 

“ But, Jimmy, why not?” 

“ I wish I knew,” he said. “ If I knew I could 
tell you.” 

“ But you must tell me.” He must, he must. 



76 


RANSOM 


She didn’t understand him like this. How could 
she combat a point unknown to either of them. 
Somehow he seemed remote, beyond her compre¬ 
hension of him. 

“ I tell you I don’t know myself. I tried to 
explain the very first night we were down here. I 
knew you wouldn’t understand. It’s a curious feel¬ 
ing, Sophie. I want most desperately to be eighteen 
again. I can’t put it better than that.” 

“ And so-” the uncertainty was intolerable. 

“ And so I can’t take you back. I don’t want 
to go back myself. I can’t go back, till-” 

“ Till-?” 

“ Till I’ve found what’s wrong with me.” 

“ But you’d like me to go?” 

He was silent for a minute, and then: 

“ Yes, Sophie, I want you to go-” 

“ Jimmy, Jimmy dear, tell me, are you smitten 
elsewhere? We always agreed to be honest.” 

“ I can’t tell you, Sophie. Truthfully I don’t 
really know. It’s all beyond me.” 

So that was it. He too was out of his depth, 
floundering in unfathomable waters of his emotions. 
What should she do? If it was that girl in the 
window it would be all right. She must keep her 
head. She held him still. She held the beast in 
him. For the moment that ravenous creature of 
his individuality was in abeyance, but the time could 
again come when its hunger must be appeased. 
Only with its death would she lose her hold of him. 
And she was sure it would never die. Things would 
all come right. Eventually, if she kept her head 
now, he would come back to her. But somehow that 






RANSOM 


77 


didn’t make the present hurt any the less. It seemed 
a poor comfort. 

“ You needn’t worry,” she heard herself saying; 
“ it’s all right, Jim. You mustn’t let it worry you. 
It’s all right.” 

But he wasn’t making it any too easy. She 
turned her back on him. From behind her she 
could hear him talking rapidly, the words tumbling 
out. 

“ I’m sorry, Sophie. My God, you don’t know 
how sorry I am. It’s not like me to apologise, 
my dear, but tonight I’m not like me. That’s the 
trouble. I’m not like me any more. It’s no good 
explaining, because, Lord knows if there’s anything 
to explain. We’ve always known, Sophie, haven’t 
we?” Oh yes, they’d always known. “ We’ve had 
some good times: at Capri; and that six weeks on 
our own in Dieppe: we’ve had our money’s worth.” 
Yes, that was it. They’d had their money’s worth. 
Only did you pay in silver coins or in some other 
way? What was it you paid with really? “ We’ve 
lived a lot; we’ve had a lot.” Of course they had. 
What was the use of going through all this? 
“ We’ll neither of us forget, my dear. Every 
moment’s been worth while, hasn’t it? I’ll do any¬ 
thing I can, of course, and you’ve only got to ask.” 

“ Oh, stop it, Jim,” she said, “ stop it, you fool.” 

He rose to his feet. 

“ It may not be permanent. I can’t tell. But 
now — I’m sorry, Sophie.” 

“ Of course you’re sorry. So am I. But it seems 
to me that this easy dismissal is a little premature.” 

“ What do you mean?” 


78 


RANSOM 


“ Simply, my dear Jim, that I can raise Cain in 
this place if I want to.” 

He came and stood beside her, his shoulder nearly 
level with her head. 

“ You’d not do that, Sophie,” he replied. “ I 
know you’d not do that.” 

“ I don’t see why not.” But she knew he spoke 
the truth; that Carlo had spoken the truth: she was 
getting “ soft ”; but she must go; she couldn’t bear 
this any longer: perhaps it would be all right in 
time. She wasn’t going to mention the girl in the 
window. That would be cheap. She’d not admit 
possible defeat, a rival. 

“ One day,” he said, “ you’ll find happiness, my 
dear.” 

She stamped her foot. 

“ For God’s sake, Jim, keep away from that sort 
of talk. It’s too damn funny for words. We under¬ 
stand one another, my dear boy, and that’s all 
there is to be said.” 

He held out his hand. 

“ Thank you, Sophie. Thank you.” 

She shook the hand with mock solemnity. 

“ And now I’m off to bed; I’m tired.” 

It was difficult to find the matches in the hall. 
One’s hands involuntarily seemed searching for 
something else — the lapels of a coat? No, matches! 
matches. God, but it was too damn funny for 
words. It made you choke. Jim apologising. But 
eventually it would all come right. He’d come back. 
But now — God, how it made you laugh, almost 
till you cried. Perhaps that’s why her cheeks were 
wet. Crying with laughter . . . crying . . . with 
. . . laughter. 


RANSOM 


79 


And early next morning Miss Wontner and Mr. 
Carlo Maude, in the latter’s yellow and tremendous 
car, left before James Brockenholt was up. Carlo, 
behind the wheel, his check cap at a rakish angle, 
was still smiling. 


CHAPTER VIII 


So James Brockenholt was left alone, and with 
Sophie’s departure Black Brockenholt came into his 
own. He spent the next week exploring old haunts, 
now wantonly and deliberately raising the ghosts. 
He tramped from Barbary to Martinsell, his car 
unused, his limbs regaining something of their elas¬ 
ticity and strength. He marvelled at himself, find¬ 
ing almost at every hour something surprisingly good 
to know. There seemed to be innumerable things 
of life which he had overlooked and was now dis¬ 
covering for the first time. Once, going down the 
Wooton Bassington Road, he stopped and talked 
to a road-mender, a brown old giant plying his 
hammer on his heap of flints. He’d seen the man 
twice before, when he’d passed him by, but this 
time he stopped at his “ Mornin’, sir.” 

“ Good morning,” said Brockenholt. “ It’s a 
beautiful day.” 

The road-mender spat upon his hands, the handle 
of his hammer resting against his leg. He grinned 
cheerfully. 

“ It is indeed,” he said. “ ’Tis beautiful 
weather.” 

He rubbed his hands together. His face was 
brown and seamed with scores of little wrinkles, 
and the sides of his neck were criss-crossed with 
innumerable shallow creases. His battered bowler 
hat was green; the shoulders of his waistcoat were 
green. He seemed like some natural creature of 
ao 


RANSOM 


81 


the downs, half-tree, half-man. As Brockenholt 
watched, the man seized the nut-brown sweat- 
polished handle, and swung the hammer over his 
head. The thick muscles knotted and relaxed in 
his hairy forearms. The skin of the biceps, just 
visible below the roll of his shirt sleeve, was hairless 
and white and smooth: across the ivory ball of 
muscle wriggled a swelling vein. The hammer fell, 
clean and true, on to the centre of a flint: five 
cracks spread across it. A tap, and the five pieces 
fell apart; a sweeping kick with a large boot, and 
they found their place in the heap by the ditch. 
The movement had the precision of an athlete’s 
action with bat or club. So, thought Brockenholt, 
this man’s work is an art. 

“You do this every day?” 

“ Pretty near, sir. For twenty-fi’ years, sir.” 

“ And you don’t get tired of it, eh?” 

The road-mender lifted his head and looked out 
over the hills. 

“ It bean’t no good to get tired, sir — the likes 
of me. I gets a touch of the sciatica sometimes, 
but it don’t make much odds, sir. It don’t make 
much odds. It’s nice to see a road well-kep’, sir.” 

Yes, it was nice to see a road well kept. You 
saw the results of your labour. There was a pride 
therein. 

“ You’re staying hereabouts, sir?” 

“ For a bit, yes.” 

“ ’Tis a pretty enough place,” said the road- 
mender and spat dark juice. There was a strange 
tranquillity about this man. Day by day Brocken¬ 
holt supposed he walked along this strip of road, 
swinging his hammer, the flints chipping and split- 


82 


RANSOM 


ting, his eyes, when he rested from the task, fixed 
on the blue and distant line of the horizon. There 
was some quality of eternity in that vacant kindly 
regard, some quality of timeless content, of — 
youth? Always youth: down here, amidst the old 
hills, even the aged seemed young. He questioned 
the man: 

“ You live near here?” 

“ Aye, sir. Behind ’ood. You can see th’ smoke. 
My missus-” 

“ You’re a married man?” 

“ Aye, sir. And glad I am to be.” 

Brockenholt laughed. 

“ And a large family, eh?” 

The road-mender rubbed his forehead with the 
back of a rough hand. 

“They were three, sir. They’m passed away 
now.” 

“ I’m sorry.” 

“ ’Tis nothing, sir. Two datters and a son. Em’ly 
died o’ the teething, and Maude took a cancer. They 
killed George in France. ’Twas no concern o’ mine 
they took ’im, but ’twere better he were biding near 
sheep hereabouts, than lie dead out there. Maybe 
’tis right. The Lord giveth and ’E taketh away, 
they ses, sir. Missus took it hardly though, but 
she ses that’s right. She’m an old woman now. 
’Twere harder for missus than for me, sir. She bore 
’im and he was a fine lad, sir.” 

So that was all, thought Brockenholt. That was 
the sum total of one man’s existence: to be born 
and to work; to take a wife and beget children; to 
see two die and, more bitter, never to see the other 
in death 1 What a lifel And yet on the decline, 



RANSOM 


83 


the days flying faster as the eye failed and the arm 
lost strength, the old couple could say, “ The Lord 
giveth and He taketh away.” 

Often before dining at the Marlton Arms he 
would stand an hour in the bar listening to the 
conversation of the habitues. Miss Serjeant from 
Swindon had by now made up her mind that he 
was the one man who could make life an everlasting 
song for her. Hadn’t he on his own accord said 
that he’d once loved a girl like her? Therefore 
she preened herself on sound of his footsteps, and 
gave more than full measure to his drinks. Fre¬ 
quently he chatted to her, while she warmed her¬ 
self, as it were, under the mocking fire of his glances. 
But her pulses not alone quickened at his presence. 
For at night, when the moon was up, when the 
downs lay dusky silent and the sheep-bells hung 
songless from the sleeping rams, Isabel Luke, in 
her room that overlooked the Wooton Bassington 
Road, in the little house at the corner of the Com¬ 
mon, waited for the crunch of Brockenholt’s foot¬ 
steps and the husky low tones of his voice quietly 
singing that very popular tune: 

“ Oh, Honey, when the silver moon is gleaming .. .” 

For each night he came and sang beneath her win¬ 
dow, being romantic in this clumsy fashion, because 
he’d never experimented with romance before, 
because his usual methods of love-making were 
brusque and in a sense conventionally very much to 
the point. Singing beneath her window to this 
creature of youth whom he coveted; tasting once 
more the flavour of young wine, sharp and strong 
and heady; wanting her rather desperately, for 


84 


RANSOM 


with her, her youth sewn close to him, no scissors 
of time could cut them apart. Her youth would 
be his. She was upon the threshold and the bud, 
beneath his knowledgeable hands, should grow into 
a lovely flower to deck his life. There would be 
no loneliness with her blooming in the chambers of 
his mind. With her kept and tended there, would 
be sanctuary; some place to creep to where nobody 
else could come and only he could smell the petals 
of her young eternal beauty, only he could touch 
that delicate plant. 

Amid this glamour James Brockenholt was de¬ 
parted and Black Brockenholt was in command, 
a wilful flame of a man who, seeking, desired; who, 
desiring, would take. 

And at the end of a week he received Mrs. Luke’s 
invitation to tea — “ If you are not too busy. We 
should be so very pleased to see you. You have 
not met my daughter, I believe. . . .” 

No, he’d not “ met ” her daughter in that sense 
of the word, but in another. 

“Oh, Honey, when the silver moon is gleaming, 
Stars a-drearning, 

Oh, 1 want chert Yes, 1 want cher! )} 


CHAPTER IX 


“ Of course/’ said Mrs. Brayham; “ if that’s true 
it makes a great deal of difference. It shows a nice 
spirit notwithstanding.” 

“ Precisely,” agreed Mrs. Luke, in a tone con¬ 
veying “ I told you so.” “ One can never judge by 
appearances, can one?” 

“ I wasn’t thinking of that,” said Mrs. Brayham. 
“ When he arrived it was necessary to — er — take 
a stand. Now that that creature has left — he sent 
her about her business, I hope — we can welcome 
him, with reservations of course, in a way worthy 
of his generosity.” 

“ So she has gone?” murmured Mrs. Luke, burn¬ 
ing inwardly. One had heard as much, of course, 
but when one oneself didn’t question one’s servants 
or gossip with the shop people, one couldn’t know 
for certain, could one? 

“ Isabel, dear, the cake-stand,” and Isabel left the 
sitting room to search the pantry for the bamboo- 
stand that should proudly bear the plain madeira, 
the seed, and the half-dozen fancy cakes in honour 
of Mr. James Brockenholt’s appetite for tea. She 
was glad to find the bamboo-stand had worked one 
support free from one of its legs. The strut, splin¬ 
tered by frequent application of the family hammer 
and tin-tack box, was hanging limply. This would 
occasion half an hour spent in repairing it. It was 
just as well, she thought. A week had passed since 
that night when she played Romans. She’d never 
85 


86 


RANSOM 


dare to play them again, now. Down that white 
road of dreams somebody had come. The imagi¬ 
nary footsteps of her fantasy had given way to 
the crunching of those other concrete footsteps, 
that had stopped beneath her window. In the 
moonlight, how enormous he’d looked, standing down 
below, his shadow carving almost a deep ragged 
trench across the grass. At first he’d startled her, 
swinging so abruptly into her dreams. And then, 
when she’d jumped back from the window and 
blown the light out frantically, how penetrating had 
been that husky voice of his, singing: 

“ Oh, Honey, when the silver moon is gleaming, 
Stars a-drearning, 

Oh, I want cher! Yes, I want cher!” 

Of course he was just passing, and because she’d 
been standing at her window, the light full on, 
it had made him look up. As for the song — well, 
every one was singing it! But it had been rather 
wonderful and that was a week ago. And every 
evening since she’d heard the crunch, crunch, crunch, 
of his footsteps passing by, and every evening that 
deep low voice had sounded from outside. Now, 
she knew it was meant for her! For her! She’d 
peeped through the curtains once and seen him 
looking up, his face bright in the moonlight. It 
was lovely fun, but she oughtn’t to think about it. 
Mum had said he was a wicked man and that was 
sweeping condemnation. On the other hand, Mum 
seemed awfully pleased he was coming to tea this 
afternoon, so perhaps after all he couldn’t be so 
very wicked. Perhaps he’d reformed. Anyway, 
she was jolly glad the bamboo-stand was broken. 


RANSOM 


87 


She wouldn’t have to wait in the sitting room and 
get horribly hot and uncomfortable with the 
suspense. When he came, it would all be a secret 
which she wouldn’t let him know that she knew. It 
would be very strange to see what he looked like 
in daylight. She’d just pretend that she’d never 
seen him before. But then, she ought to be sensible, 
and just not think about it. Anybody with as 
much power and money and reputation as he 
wouldn’t fall — fall in love with —her! Then, why 
did he come every night and send funny little shivers 
up her spine with his crunching footsteps? Perhaps 
it was just wickedness. What did that matter, 
though? Anybody who looked like he did, who 
came suddenly down her road, couldn’t be judged 
by the ordinary rules of conduct. It was all mud- 
dley: sometimes she thought she’d imagined the 
whole affair. She was frightened to go down the 
town in case she should see him. It would be very 
awkward to be taken unawares like that, running 
into him unprepared. But now, he was coming this 
afternoon, to the house. Of course it hadn’t hap¬ 
pened at all really; she was making it up, building 
stories — the jangling of the front door bell made 
her jump. Yes, it was his voice. She edged farther 
into the pantry. His footsteps passing, now: the 
sitting room door opening, and Mum’s voice, “ How 
do you do.” Daddy shuffling along the passage. 
The door opening and closing again. Another tack 
— there! She ought to go in, now — was that firm 
enough? — now, go in — a little more hammering, 
just there. After all, it would have been better to 
stay inside the room. Would it be best to take 
the stand in loaded with cakes, or to fetch them 


88 


RANSOM 


afterwards? If you had the stand in one hand and 
had to balance it, how difficult it would be to shake 
hands. Or didn’t you shake hands? Just bow? 
But you couldn’t bow over the cakes, you’d probably 
upset them. Well, leave the cakes outside and pre¬ 
tend you’d forgotten them. Then Mum might be 
annoyed thinking you silly to let .things like that 
slip your memory, or old Mrs. Brayham would smile 
her sickly smile that tried to tell you she under¬ 
stood how embarrassing it was, when she didn’t 
understand a bit. No, of course — tell Elizabeth 
to bring the cakes in. 

She ran into the kitchen. 

“ I’ve mended the cake-stand, Elizabeth,” she 
said breathlessly. “ Will you bring them — it — 
in, please?” 

Elizabeth, who cooked, waited, washed-up, 
cleaned, scrubbed for the Lukes, but above every¬ 
thing else loved Isabel, allowed her fat oval face 
to relapse into a grin, with: 

“ All right, Miss Isabel, you run in then.” 

Thereupon Isabel ran in: it seemed best to get 
it over quickly and that was why Brockenholt’s 
sophisticated heart gave a thump when she stood 
in the doorway, a flower to decorate that appalling 
sitting room, her cheeks faintly flushed, and her eyes 
very bright indeed. 

He rose and shook hands with her. 

“ My daughter Isabel, Mr. Brockenholt.” 

How quickly she took her fingers from his, how 
he wanted to tell her there wasn’t any need to be 
really so scared, that he too was a little bit scared 
at this thing that now seemed certain to overwhelm 
them. How strong that thing was. Even that old 


RANSOM 


89 


cow of a mother couldn’t break the spell, nor her 
blatant schemings, nor her futile silly mind and her 
ugly ill-chosen sitting room, with the bric-a-brac, 
the lithographs, the bookcase with its leather fringes 
along the shelves; her obvious invitation to tea; 
the innuendoes of that absurd Brayham woman with 
her beady eyes and hooky nose; old Luke’s fre¬ 
quent catarrhal sniffs and Isabel’s cotton frock — 
none of these could destroy the illusion. Didn’t 
that show how strong it was, that he could suffer 
these fools gladly and let them lavish fat phrases on 
him with their flat idiotic voices? What would they 
say when they knew? They’d be fulsome and dis¬ 
gusting but that wouldn’t matter. He and this 
lovely girl would shake the Marlton dust from their 
feet and together take the world by storm. He 
would teach her to dress, to play her pretty tricks 
in silk instead of cotton. “ Jimmy Brockenholt, of 
Lingfields, and his lovely young wife.” Wouldn’t 
they devour the Tatler and the Sketch down here? 
How that old pink elephant with her weak heart 
and mauve face would wheeze, “ My dear, see this,” 
and then pages of photos: “ Mrs. James Brockenholt, 
the beautiful young wife of the well-known director 
of Lingfields.” “Isabel Brockenholt (and friend), 
at Ascot.” He chuckled to himself. 

And all the time the unsuspecting Isabel, sitting 
beside her father, thought: “ He is good looking! 
He is wonderful! I do love him, don’t I?” 

“ Your friends have left, Mr. Brockenholt?” 
asked Mrs. Brayham, disregarding the indignant 
glare of Mrs. Luke’s eyes. 

“ They went a week ago,” said Brockenholt, 
putting his teacup down with a rattle on the pseudo- 


90 


RANSOM 


mahogany occasional table placed at his side. 
“ They only came down just — to see the place.” 

“ Another cup, Mr. Brockenholt? Yes-” 

“ I thought she was so charming,” continued Mrs. 
Bray ham. 

“ I used to,” replied Brockenholt. 

“ Of course” agreed Mrs. Brayham sympatheti¬ 
cally. “ And when do you go back?” 

“ When I get what I want.” 

“ How interesting.” 

“ Isabel,” rasped Mrs. Luke, “ Isabel, Mr. Brock- 
enholt’s cup. No, no, sit down please, Mr. Brocken¬ 
holt, Isabel can manage nicely. You do take sugar, 
don’t you? During the war one grew so accustomed 
to give up little trifles like that, that one has to ask 
nowadays, I find. We all gave up sugar,” she added 
triumphantly. She sighed. “ It was the least we 
could do. Archie, bring your chair closer, you’re 
dropping jam.” 

“ I haven’t got a knife,” said Mr. Luke. “ I never 
seem to have a knife.” 

“ Isabel, a knife, dear. No, child; the other cup¬ 
board. We were very short of rations down here. 
I always feel we, at least, did our bit, to help the 
brave boys out at the front. It was very trying. 
They organized Zeppelin drills up at the College; 
the very sound of the whistles made me feel shaky. 
My heart, you know? Yes, very trying, but then, 
one cannot have everything, can one?” 

“ My husband was in the Local Volunteers,” 
said Mrs. Brayham, spitefully. 

“ I tried three times,” growled old Luke, “ but 
they wouldn’t have me. Catarrh, you know. Colds 
in winter, hay-fever in summer.” 



RANSOM 


91 


“ That’ll do, Archie. We have a new gramophone, 
Mr. Brockenholt; perhaps you would care to hear 
it. Isabel, the records, dear. My husband is so 
musical. I too dote on music. It’s in our family: 
my father once sang before the Queen. Westminster 
Choir, you know. Oh, very talented.” 

But it was Brockenholt who helped Isabel find 
the records. Her hand was shaking as she handed 
them out to him. 

“ What would you like?” she asked. “ These 
are opera, and there’s some popular things down at 
the bottom.” 

How sweet those lips of hers were and her eyes, 
cloudy beneath the delicate fringe of their lashes. 

“ Here’s ‘ II Trovatore,’ ” she said. “ ‘ Selections 
from Faust.’ Then songs — ‘ Two Eyes of Grey,’ 
‘ The Indian Love Lyrics,’ ‘ 0 Star of Eve,’ 1 Good¬ 
bye ’-” 

“ Slop!” said Brockenholt under his breath, then 
chuckled as she grimaced at him. 

“Sh! Mum chose them. Daddy always goes out 
to his study when we put the gramophone on. Do 
be quick!” 

“ Where’s the popular stuff, as you call it?” He 
took a record out of her hand. “ That’ll do.” 

“ Have you found one?” asked Mrs. Luke. 

“ Yes,” said Brockenholt and wound the gramo¬ 
phone handle savagely; “ we’ll have this.” 

Luke stirred uneasily in his chair. 

“ If you don’t mind, my dear-” 

“ Really, Archie.” 

“ My husband calls gramophones abominations,” 
twittered Mrs. Brayham; “ but then of course he 
isn’t musical.” 




92 


RANSOM 


With a sliding groan the gramophone spun into 
the opening bars, plucked up courage, and droned 
out: 

“ Oh, Honey, when the silver moon is gleaming . . 

There was no chance for Brockenholt to watch 
Isabel: she was busy kneeling before the cupboard, 
apparently extremely busy searching for further 
records. 

“ Charming, of course,” said Mrs. Brayham, when 
the last high note had relapsed into the scratching 
of the needle. “ Charming. One knows it so well.” 

But when she had left Mrs. Luke suggested: 

“ Isabel, I’m sure Mr. Brockenholt would like 
to see the garden.” 

Mr. Brockenholt was quite sure he’d be delighted 
to see the garden. 

“ One’s garden is such a delight, Mr. Brockem 
holt. Unfortunately nowadays I cannot attend per¬ 
sonally to it. My heart will not permit such 
exertion. We expect a fine crop of apples this year. 
Last year there was trouble with blight. So dis¬ 
appointing. We almost lived on apples alone during 
the war. I do feel the lack of nourishment was a 
direct cause of my getting so run down. But there 
you are . . Her voice followed them out into 
the garden. “ You can go to your study, Archie, 
if you wish . . . and send Elizabeth in . . . how 
that woman talks . . . very distinguished, Archie, 
don’t you think . . . yes, go along now, right away 
. . . I can’t help it if you have lost your pen, 
Archie . . . one would have thought . . 

Tall as he was, Isabel reached his shoulder. Her 
fair soft hair seemed to capture and intertwine 


RANSOM 


93 


amongst its loose coils something of the late sun’s 
deep gold. Her arms were bare almost from the 
shoulder and it made him smile to think that the 
middle finger and thumb of one of his hands could 
easily encircle her elbow. She pointed out the apple 
trees, the strawberry beds, the runner-beans, the 
inverted flower-pots placed by Luke over reluctant 
plants of the obscure vegetable species; she talked 
quickly and excitedly. She’s embarrassed, he 
thought; she doesn’t want me to talk, because she 
doesn’t know what I’m going to say next. In fact, 
she’s frightened of giving herself away. Altogether 
she’s frightened. 

“ This is the potting shed. Daddy used it for 
carpentry sometimes, but-” 

“ Miss Luke?” 

“ Yes?” 

“ Don’t you think there’s another subject much 
more interesting than, say, cauliflowers?” 

“ Is there?” Little minx, for all her barrier of 
virginity, there was a touch of spirit that promised 
well. 

“Most certainly, yes. You, for instance!” 

She glanced at him sharply. 

“ Oh, I’m not very interesting.” There was no 
self-consciousness in the remark. 

“ Well, I am.” 

She laughed at that, frankly. 

“ You’re very conceited.” 

“ Not really. But tell me, how yery bad do you 
think I am, from what you’ve heard.” 

She became confused and caught her lower lip 
with two white teeth. 

“I don’t know!” she answered honestly. 



94 


RANSOM 


He smiled down at her. There were so many 
things he could say, appropriate things which one 
could always say. But it was a new and rather 
thrilling experience for him to find himself at a 
loss for words. One must be so very careful not 
to frighten her. What was it that was so elusive 
about her? Perhaps it was her honesty, her entire 
lack of knowledge of the rules of the game. Well, 
wasn’t that what he desired in her above every¬ 
thing else? Innocency and youth? Wasn’t it 
through her that he should share some part of these 
two things? He’d never have to worry again about 
the marching years, with this fountain of younger 
life to draw from. He was young now himself, 
standing with her at the bottom of the garden, look¬ 
ing down at Isabel amongst the flowers. If she was 
frightened, it was because she was ignorant of what 
might happen next — lack of experience. In that 
case, only honesty could combat honesty. Besides, 
he wanted to be honest. 

“ I’m not so terribly bad,” he said, “ when you 
know what badness really is. I’m only rather 
hungry.” 

She didn’t answer. Instinct told her what might 
lie beyond the door on whose threshold she stood; 
instinct warned her, but instinct urged her to cross 
the step. If he was going to make love to her it 
would be very wonderful. But she wasn’t sure she 
wanted that — now. If you voyaged into this 
strange land, what happened to you? You’d got to 
know so much — like Miss Wontner, maybe — and 
she was so ignorant, nobody ever told you, and she 
might get lost. But that polished manner and 
worldly-wise look of his wasn’t on his face now. 


RANSOM 


95 


He seemed very serious, so tall above her, and 
curiously enough, rather embarrassed. She’d like 
to run away from him very quickly and at once. 
Yet she wanted to stay and listen. When some 
ordinary person tried to be silly, you just shut them 
up, because it spoilt things, but this big man you 
couldn’t shut up. But then again, it would be mere 
vanity to think he liked you very much. Perhaps 
he’d done all this before and it was the proper 
way to amuse yourself under such circumstances. 
But suppose he did . . . Oh, suppose he only did! 
He was troubled, though. She could see that, and 
when he smiled at her it wasn’t that smile he gave 
Mum or Mrs. Brayham, it was a sort of especial 
smile, a little bit wistful, and his eyes were kind in 
a sort of way. 

“ I shall be down here for some little time,” he 
was saying; “ if you’d like to, I’ll take you for a run 
in the car some time. We’ll ask your mother.” 

She nodded. 

“ It would be lovely.” 

They walked back towards the house. At the 
door he stopped. 

“You’ll be quite safe,” he said; and then: “Do 
I sing well?” 


CHAPTER X 


There is a wood perched on the summit of 
Martinsell, that high hill. The fir-trees are planted 
very close together, slender and tall, the moss deep 
about their roots, the lips of the upper branches 
pale-green against the sky. It is a desolate and 
lovely place poised between earth and heaven. On 
a certain evening, some ten days after Mrs. Luke’s 
tea-party, when the sun touched the dark trunks 
with flame, Isabel stood leaning against the gate 
leading into the wood, while Brockenholt lay full 
length on the grass beside her feet. And while 
she rested her elbows on the gate, peering into the 
gold-green depths of the wood, she felt suddenly 
the grasp of a hand upon her instep, and that deep 
voice saying from behind her: 

“ Isabel! Oh, Isabel ...” 

There was no mistaking that impassioned pro¬ 
nunciation of her name. There was no chance of 
retreat now. As before in the garden, a quick throb 
of fear snatched at her breath, but now, rushing after 
it, drowning it, some terrible all-conquering emotion 
seized her, till she felt herself trembling all over. 
Then before she was aware of movement she was 
facing about, his arms around her knees, and his 
dark glowing face upturned to hers. Her hands 
were on his shoulders and all she could see in that 
tumultuous moment was his eyes burning beneath 
her, burning into her, setting her alight. Then she 
was held close to him, the scrubby material of his 


RANSOM 


97 


tweed coat scratching at her hot cheek and his 
lips touching her hair and his voice whispering: 

“ My darling, I want you so awfully . . . Isabel 
. . . Isabel . . 

She raised her bare arms till her fingers touched 
the bristly-cropped hair at the back of his neck. 
And then his lips were groping for hers, his arms 
crushing her; she was drowning in this deep sea 
of ecstasy, drowning with his mouth hard against 
hers, the grip of his fingers on her shoulders, exqui¬ 
site pain. . . . 

Then at length he spoke, his voice shaky, hardly 
audible above the hammering of her heart and the 
violence of her breathing: 

“ You wanted us to be like this, didn’t you, 
Isabel? . . . you wanted this? ... I love you so 
much . . 

Wanted him like this? Dear heart, yes, a thou¬ 
sand times! Wanted him? This splendid traveller 
into her dreams, who’d sung beneath her window, 
stepping out of the night along her road, making her 
dreams come real, making reality more wonderful 
even than dreams! 

“ Tell me, Isabel.” 

Was that smothered voice from the cover of his 
shoulder her own voice answering: 

“ Yes.” 

It couldn’t be true. She was still standing by the 
gate imagining things; she’d wake up in a minute. 
But his voice was still sounding. 

“ Let’s be sensible, Isabel . . . let’s talk things 
over. . . .” 

And while she nestled beside him in the crook 
of his arm, her face still hidden, he told her; 


98 


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“We’ll tell your mother tonight, won’t we? 
There’s no need to wait long, is there? We can 
get married down here if you like. And then, my 
darling, we’ll take a long month abroad and go back 
to town.” 

His arm tightened about her as she trembled. 

“ You shall have all the world if you want it, 
Isabel. All the world. They shall see how beau¬ 
tiful you are, they shall see what a flower I have 
found. You’ll find things a bit different from down 
here, but you’ll like it, won’t you?” 

She nodded. How could she speak when such 
a miracle was taking place? 

“ We’ll live in the cubby-hole I’ve got. It must 
do for the present. But it shall have everything 
in it you want. We’ll show ’em, Isabel. You’ll be 
happy with such a wicked person as me, won’t you? 
You do want this? My life’s been very different 
from yours. Not all good. There’s a bit of the brute 
in me, Isabel, but you’ll kill it.” He didn’t know 
then how long and bitter that death-struggle would 
be. “ I’ve got to take you away. You’ll be lovelier 
than them all.” She didn’t know to whom he 
referred. She was soon to know. “ You’re so sweet, 
Isabel, and fresh and lovely and innocent. Bless 
you, Isabel, bless you, I’ll be so proud.” 

And then of her own accord she put up her hands 
and pulled his face down to hers. 

Before she went to bed that night she stood for 
a long time before her window. A haze encircled 
the moon. Barbary wag a purple denser darkness 
in the night. Summer scents and the sleeping sounds 
of the country side came to her. He passed by, 
calling up softly: 


RANSOM 


99 


“ Good night, little wife.” 

“ Good night,” she whispered back. “ Good 
night, my darling Jim.” 

And then she told the purple wedge of Barbary: 

“ I will repay him. Oh, I will repay him. I’ll 
slave and live and die for him! That he should 
choose me! His wife!” 

“ I love him dreadfully,” she told the downs. 

A month later she stood, Isabel Brockenholt now, 
by the rail of the ship that was taking them to 
Majorca for their honeymoon. 

There was no end to these wonders, she thought: 
they crowded in bewildering rapidity. Even now 
she couldn’t believe all those vivid pictures which 
flashed through her mind to be impressions of facts 
and not of fantasy. Each one seemed more amaz¬ 
ing than the last. There never would be an end 
to them, there never would be an end to anything. 
How funny Jim had looked with the soap all white 
over his chin and cheeks, and how delicious the 
rasping sound of his razor. She could find some¬ 
thing wonderful in that . . . Jim shaving! Nobody 
else could watch Jim, her Jim, dabbing the stubby 
brush in the soap, rubbing his face, sharpening his 
razor to scrape his skin all smooth and shiny and 
soft. It was one of the million little things she 
alone possessed about him. She must go through 
them all again to make it real, to pinch herself and 
make sure she wasn’t dreaming. He’d come up 
soon from their cabin, and then she’d be so occupied 
discovering fresh marvels that she wouldn’t have 
time to think over the old ones. 

Wasn’t the sea clean and bright, miles of it all 


100 


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around them: no land in sight, till this afternoon, 
Jimmy had said. He’d be up soon, she must make 
haste. 

Would ever that wood die away, the little fir- 
copse on Martinsell where Jimmy had told her? In 
her mind the wood ever would remain fixed eternally 
in that gentle sun of the evening, the trunk’s long 
shadows falling across the dark green ground below, 
the wind rustling along the twigs, and from the out¬ 
side of this dim green world of theirs, the sheep- 
bells tinkling over the downs. How thrilled every 
one had been! You’d never have thought Mum 
could have got so excited without her heart betray¬ 
ing her. And Elizabeth, when she heard, dropping 
the saucepan, clattering on the floor, and throwing 
her arms round her and saying, “ Well, I never did. 
I never did.” Just as if nobody had ever got 
engaged before. But that was right; nobody ever 
had to such a splendid person as Jim. Mrs. Bray- 
ham, all fluff and flurry, trying hard to keep cool 
and collected. “ A most excellent match, my dear 
Isabel.” And dear old Mrs. Lang-Davies, “ I hope 
you’ll be very happy, dear child. I shall tell my son, 
who’s in town, to come and call on you when you get 
back. I hope life will be kind to you.” Kind to 
you? What an absurd thing to say! Life and 
God and everybody was kind. Marvellously kind. 
Then Jim going about with her, smiling down at 
her, waiting on her. . . . Only one thing had been 
horrid: the afternoon Mum had called her into the 
sitting room, a week before the marriage, and — 
told her things! What did Mum want to go and do 
that for? It wasn’t necessary. She’d always do 


RANSOM 


101 


what Jim wanted her to do: her only aim was to 
make Jim as happy as he’d made her. Jim could 
have told her wisely and carefully and tenderly. 
She’d looked forward to Jim telling her in his quiet 
gentle way. And Mum hadn’t seen how it had hurt 
her, talking like that, about her and Jim. It had 
made her feel all sort of cold and frightened, and 
she’d had to go to Jim afterwards and ask him. That 
had made him angry, dark and stormy, not with her, 
but with Mum. She’d cried a little bit then, and 
Jim had held her close to him, where she felt safe 
and happy and awfully stupid when she felt better 
and wasn’t crying any more. Yes, that had been 
horrid of Mum. 

But now they were on their honeymoon. A whole 
long month to spend in Majorca. What a lot of 
money Jim had and how lovely it was to be so power¬ 
ful as he was and make other people do just what 
you told them! All sorts of things came back to 
you, when you had the opportunity to indulge in 
them. The church and her dress! “ Lilies for you,” 
Jim had said. Lilies, white and fragrant and lovely. 
Her silver dress and the little sprigs of orange 
blossom, Jim beside her, so big and strong, “ to have 
and to hold from this day forward.” The friends 
around her, all happy because she was happy. “ The 
bride’s day,” Jim had said. 

“ Dear God,” she thought, “ he’s given me all this, 
all this. Help me to help him, to live up to what 
he wants me to be. Please, dear God, make me a 
success.” 

Now they were steaming out to Majorca: days 
beneath a new bluer sky; ahead the everlasting 


102 


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glorious road to march, side by side; all good things 
to come. I don’t deserve it all, she thought, I don’t 
deserve it. 

And then he was beside her, coming to fetch 
her for breakfast, his fingers touching her arm. 

“Why the tears?” 

“ Oh, Jimmy darling, I’m so happy, I’m so terribly 
happy.” 

How silly to cry now, with the sea and Jim all 
around you! Crying for joy, crying . . . for . . . 
joy . . . 


II 

THE HOUSE IN FULHAM SQUARE 

“ I will make you brooches and toys for 
your delight.” 




CHAPTER I 


Brockenholt had owned the house for the past 
three years. Though living practically by himself, 
it had been, to his way of thinking, necessary to 
surround himself with a certain majesty. He had 
wired from Marl ton, the day before his marriage, 
instructing Waller, that shrewd man of parts, his 
“ man ” formerly, now butler beneath the new 
regime, to arrange the house for the arrival of Mrs. 
James Brockenholt. Waller, wise in the ways of 
his master, prepared as always for any emergency 
engineered by the sudden whims that blew through 
those same corridors as unexpectedly as draughts, 
had merely nodded his head once or twice and con¬ 
fided to Mrs. Bortle, who cooked immaculately for 
a very high wage, that the master had “ made his 
choice.” Mrs. Bortle, who had been on the point of 
leaving for the last three years from a sense of what 
should be what and though it weren’t no business 
of hers what other people did, yet some things 
weren’t what she were accustomed to, in answer 
clasped her hands before her portly apron, and: 

“ Well, I ’opes it steadies him.” 

“ That I can’t say, not knowing,” was Waller’s 
further comment. “ But” — ominously — “I has 
my instructions.” 

The chambermaid and the kitchen maid, as always 
marvellously intrigued by the omnipotence of the 
master of the house in Fulham Square, immediately 
ran through the acquaintances of that thunderous 
105 


106 


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gentleman, speculating on the identity of the bride. 

“ No one we knows,” said Waller. 

“ If it was,” remarked Mrs. Bortle, “ if it was — 
I should leave.” 

“ That doesn’t signify, Mrs. Bortle, but I has my 
instructions.” 

Therefore the house was invaded by a small army 
of decorators, painters, plumbers, carpenters, and 
furnishing experts. Another sheaf of telegrams 
directed the occupation from Majorca. Waller 
assumed an air of added importance. Mrs. Bortle 
kept herself to herself; Kathie and Banks regaled 
the decorators, painters, plumbers and carpenters 
in a way that encouraged them to arrive early and 
leave late. 

The house had always been beautiful. It faced 
the square with a certain stern solid satisfaction. 
Seven steps ran out to the portico, with its Doric 
columns. The front door was stained dark mahog¬ 
any, and in its upper portion brass network guarded 
the dark green glass panels. The hall was lofty and 
at first narrow, suddenly opening into the main 
chamber, where the great staircase curved upwards 
to the first floor. Pale green were the walls of the 
hall and a line of nine sporting prints ran along 
the left side. On the right lay the dining room, 
panelled very faint blue, the chair seats covered with 
royal blue, glowering down from above the sideboard 
a massive, somewhat gloomy oil-painting of Tintagel. 
On the first floor the drawing room occupied the 
whole front of the house. Tall lean windows opened 
out on to an iron balcony overlooking the gardens 
in the square. A huge mirror of gilt wood and 
painted panels was over the mantelpiece. The room 


RANSOM 


107 


was delicious in warm chintz and Rose du Barry; 
a very fine room, full, but not too full, of very fine 
things. Next door was Brockenholt’s study with a 
red brick fireplace and red leather furniture; oppo¬ 
site was a small square room now half-prepared as a 
boudoir for the lady of the house. Above were 
six bedrooms and higher still, most private, and 
indeed most personal of all, the quarters put aside 
for Mrs. Bortle, Waller, and the maids. 

The decorators, painters and experts had worked 
hard. The house was proud of itself. Its newly 
refreshed exterior stood out amongst its neighbours. 
Almost it seemed to have grown bigger, more im¬ 
portant. The trees in the gardens rustled their way 
to autumn, wondering perhaps what new thing was 
quickening to give their old companion so grand a 
position amongst its fellows. The beech tree oppo¬ 
site had seen the house change hands many times; it 
had seen comings and goings down those seven white 
steps, the mahogany door opening and slamming to, 
change and change, life and death, passing up and 
down, interminably, continually. Now change again 
had come, whitening the house’s face, washing its pil¬ 
lars, touching up its complexion. Who should know 
for what thing these things were done? For what 
thing’s happiness, for what thing’s pain? These 
last three years, the windows had blazed by night, 
cars had throbbed up to the portico, and in the 
still hours the air had been whipped with the laugh¬ 
ing and cackling from the brilliant interior. But 
this last month the windows had been eyeless sockets 
by night and by day blind with curtains, only from 
inside had come the sound of hammers and pails 
and footsteps, a glimpse of the movement of white 


108 


RANSOM 


aprons and pots of paints. The house was being 
prepared, being made worthy. The leaves of the 
trees as yet unfallen were becoming stained too, 
with their regal colour of annual sleep till the young 
year should stir sap again. The trees as well 
seemed ready to greet this new thing that had given 
the house new glory. The twigs nudged one another, 
the leaves winked, and below the rhododendron and 
laurel bushes patiently watched the mahogany front 
door. 

To those seven steps then, beneath that noble 
portico with the Doric columns, came this afternoon, 
swinging round the corner of the square in the 
shining saloon Daimler, James Brockenholt and his 
wife, Isabel. 

Had anybody ever had a home like this before? 

“ Oh, Jimmy,” she said, as the chauffeur held 
open the door of the car, “ Oh, Jimmy! You are a 
terrible story-teller. You said it was just a sort 
of cubby-hole!” 

Brockenholt, helping her from her seat with an 
unnecessary but adoring arm, his smile more capti¬ 
vating and brilliant than it had ever been before, 
caught at her hand as she stepped past him. 

“ Well, this is only to start with, at any rate.” 

So she was amazed, was she, and bewildered? 
Well, that was as it should be! How beautiful 
she was in these new clothes of hers, how sweet 
a thing, how adorably — young! They’d passed 
through Paris on the way back, spending four days 
there, shopping. Moreover, they had found Lisette, 
the amazing, the choicest of ladies’ maids, who 
now in trim but very chic black, covered with 
hat-boxes and exhilaration, jumped from the car. 


RANSOM 


109 


A very good girl Lisette, he thought, with very good 
taste and very knowing ways, who’d help in her 
role to adorn this lovely flower of a wife. She’d a 
pretty leg too, had Lisette, he noticed, as she jumped 
from the car. So she was amazed, was she? This 
beautiful Isabel, so tall and fair in her new clothes. 
The pretty ways of her! It was like taking a kiddie 
into the Christmas bazaar at a big store and saying, 
“ Take your choice. You can have everything.” He 
was a new man already, even after one short month 
with her. What a wonder this Youth was, notwith¬ 
standing all the rubbish talked about it! It caught 
at your heart; it was a perpetual delight: it made 
you ashamed of your old cynicism and hollow pre¬ 
tences. And he owned her now, by right of God, 
by right of law, by right of himself. 

Waller opened the mahogany door, his lean face 
very expressionless, his black coat fitting very well. 
Smart man, Waller, who did what he was told 
promptly and well, and, moreover, kept his thoughts 
to himself. Behind Waller, in the hall, Mrs. Bortle 
dignified in black, Banks and that slut Kathie. Why 
didn’t Kathie put on black too, instead of that print 
thing? 

“ This,” said Brockenholt, twinkling, “ this, Wal¬ 
ler, is your mistress!” 

Waller bowed. 

Isabel, looking back over her shoulder at her 
husband, smiled shyly and a soft warm flush tinged 
her cheeks. She held out her hand. 

“ How do you do — Waller?” 

Waller without a tremor touched the gloved fingers 
with his own. 

“ Thank you, Madam.” 


110 


RANSOM 


“ This is Mrs. Bortle, Isabel,” Mrs. Bortle 
bobbed. “ Banks and the — what is it, Waller?” 

“ The kitchen maid, sir.” 

“ The kitchen maid, Isabel.” 

Funny child! shaking hands with them . . . just 
like her! Frank and careless and kind. Bless her! 
they’d all love her, nearly as much as he did. And 
the rest of ’em? Ah! the rest of ’em! They should 
see what James Brockenholt had found for wife. 
They’d sit up and take notice, when she’d grown 
accustomed to the harness and all its trappings. 

“ You saw everything was done as I ordered, 
Waller?” 

“ Yes sir.” 

“ You found no difficulty?” 

“ No, sir.” 

Boxes bumping on the seven steps, Lisette behind. 

“ Waller!” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ This is Mrs. Brockenholt’s maid. See every¬ 
thing is put in order for her.” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

They sat in front of one of the drawing-room 
windows after dinner, with the room unlit, waiting 
for the moon to rise over the chimneys and trees 
opposite. Jim was beside her, their chairs drawn 
close together, his hand resting on her arm. She 
was tired with the journey and the excitement in 
home-coming. Jim must be tired too, lying back 
in his chair his legs in their black trousers reaching 
out in front, his feet crossed. He was indeed sunk 
in a drowsy sense of satisfaction. Now and again 
he glanced at the golden head just beyond his 
fingers and sighed. Her hands cupped her chin and 


RANSOM 


111 


her shoulders were dusky white in the late twilight. 
It was a wonderful feeling this, to sit beside so 
lovely a creature which belonged to you. It gave 
him a greater sense of power and possession than 
anything else had ever done. No force of Heaven 
or earth could take this from him. This is com¬ 
pletion, he thought, and let his eyes close sleepily. 
But Isabel, listening to the distant roar of traffic 
and watching the lights in the houses the far side of 
the square spring up and glimmer through the trees, 
tried hard to analyse the emotions that irritated 
her. 

Perhaps this uneasiness at the back of her 
mind was due to the strangeness of the things that 
had come so suddenly upon her? Or was it the 
realization that there were facts to be faced now? 
Yes, that was it. The confused and miraculous 
dream was over. No longer could she leave every¬ 
thing to Jim, follow his instructions, let him lead 
her. This was home, her home, and she was to 
manage this great place for him and to act on her 
own in many ways. That meant responsibility. 
She didn’t shirk the thought any more than the facts 
to come, but under the circumstances it made her a 
little worried. Things were so very different. There 
were so many little details to become acquainted 
with, small trivial things that might matter such a 
lot. This you must do for yourself, that must be 
done for you. Shopping at home had been a simple 
matter. Very often Mum had chosen your clothes 
and helped you buy the material. Then Elizabeth 
had cut out after you’d pinned the paper patterns. 
There was nothing very formal about that. But in 
Paris you’d been driven to some wonderful place 


112 


RANSOM 


that really wasn’t like a shop at all. You’d sat 
down with Jim and watched a parade of beautiful 
women in more beautiful dresses. When you got 
excited (you didn’t like to point somehow) and 
whispered to Jim he just waved his stick like a 
magic wand and presto! — there were boxes and 
boxes back at the hotel: tryings-on, fat marcelled 
ladies plucking at you, turning you this way, twist¬ 
ing you that, dapper little men snatching great folds 
of priceless materials and holding them against 
you, seemingly a crowd of businesslike people who 
used you, though in a most courteous way, as a 
dummy. They’d talked all the time, pins all over 
them, working feverishly and apparently discon¬ 
nectedly. “ If Madam could turn this way — so. 
Madam can see the back in the mirror? Perhaps 
-” And what had the mirror shown her in re¬ 
peated marvels, those four days? Somebody tall 
and slender, with a rather scared white face and 
big eyes, a stranger sheathed in shimmering silver, 
in rose and gold, somebody neat and very, very — 
“ chic ” — that was smart of course, in a little 
coat and skirt of grey, with never a wrinkle about 
the shoulders or a pucker at the top of the sleeves, 
with a tiny round black hat, a red feather stuck 
through the brim; somebody else, heaps of some¬ 
bodies in glorious dresses of subtle silks, with thrill¬ 
ing patterns of beads; morocain, crepe de Chine, 
brocade, taffeta . . . turquoise, jade, white, rose, 
silver and gold. . . . Dresses cunningly made, 
indelibly signed, Reville, Lanvin, Callot, Patou, 
Martial et Armond! Names of the mighty! Names 
of women’s gods! Names of awe! And all those 
somebodies laughing back at her from the high 



RANSOM 


113 


clear mirrors were — herself! Oh, but it was dif¬ 
ferent, it was miraculous, almost — terrifying! 

Then Jimmy had found Lisette. How funny it 
was to have somebody to dress you, somebody who 
by right of hire and custom took it for granted 
that you couldn’t do your own hair or dress your¬ 
self properly! And Lisette had liked her hair. 

“ Madam has such gorgeous hair.” 

“ Oh, Lisette, do you think so?” 

“ It is so soft, Madam, and so ve-ery beautifully 
golden,” and holding a handful over Isabel’s head 
so she could see in the looking-glass. 

“ It is sunshine-hair, Madam. It has a light of 
its ve-ery own.” 

She was glad Lisette liked her hair: was pleased 
to brush it, to twist the thick coils of it expertly, 
to rub her scalp. Somehow that gave you confi¬ 
dence in this stranger who intruded into your room. 
It was generous of Lisette and kind of her to praise 
a thing like that in somebody else. 

“ It is a pleasure to attend to Madam. She 
is so beautiful.” That made you feel wriggly and 
you rather wanted to kiss Lisette, which would be 
probably wrong in this new world, and you got 
a bit flustered and changed the subject. But 
somehow Lisette’s praise was so impersonal, as if 
all her life she’d been accustomed to handling beau¬ 
tiful living things, as indeed she had, that you 
felt her criticism to be most valuable. Lisette knew 
by heart all the little things that worried you, but 
then you couldn’t ask Lisette any more than you 
could ask Jimmy. It would seem so silly not to 
know, and they both thought you so wonderful that 
it would be showing them, perhaps cruelly, that after 


114 


RANSOM 


all you were still puzzled and impossibly human. 

Now this immense house was hers and she must 
take her place as director of household duties. Jim 
would want to give parties, and, he’d told her as 
much, show his friends what a wife he had found 
for himself. What was it Jim loved her for? It 
couldn’t be only because she loved him so desper¬ 
ately that the very thought of it was almost pain. 
She wasn’t so beautiful as all that, she wasn’t clever 
like Jim, she wasn’t worthy of all this splendour. 
And he was so kind with her, so tender; the way 
he laughed at her silly mistakes and stupid ques¬ 
tions, it was as if he found some quality of happiness 
in that inexperience which she condemned in herself 
with such fervour. Dear Jim, she thought, it doesn’t 
matter why you love me so long as you do. Even if 
you didn’t I should still love you most terribly. 
Nothing will ever, ever stop me loving you. And 
if I have to learn things, dear Jim, I won’t mind 
a bit, I’ll learn hard and quickly so you’ll be pleased 
with me, because there’s nobody in the world like 
you and I’m so proud, so awfully proud you chose 
and want me. It’s that that counts, Jim, not the 
dresses and the other lovely things, but just because 
you want me. I love you so. 

That was why he found her suddenly kneeling 
before him, her head against his knees, her thin 
white arms reaching up to touch his face, so that 
he started, blinked the drowsiness out of his eyes, 
and smiled down at her. 

“ Hullo, what? Tired?” 

“Yes, Jim — no. Oh, Jim, isn’t this all too 
wonderful?” 

He laughed. 


RANSOM 


115 


“ Bless your heart! Hop up, here’s somebody 

-” Waller, two letters on a tray, was beside 

them. 

“ The evening post, sir.” 

Brockenholt glanced down and then quickly lifted 
the envelopes from the salver, and, 

“ Thanks. One for you, Isabel.” 

The other letter he thrust into the pocket of his 
dinner jacket, rose, yawned, crossed to the table 
with its glasses and decanters and helped himself 
to a drink. 

“ Oh, Jimmy, it’s from dear old Mrs. Lang- 
Davies.” 

“ Yes? Who’s she?” 

“Why, she was at the wedding. The old thing 
with grey hair and the funny little wizened face. 
You called her-” 

“The chimpanzee! I remember. Well, what’s 
she got to say?” 

“ Leonard Lang-Davies, that’s the son, is up 
here. A journalist, I gather. She’s told him to 
come and call. He’s a dear, Jimmy. We knew each 
other as kids. You’ll like him awfully. Who’s yours 
from?” 

“ Shall I?” asked Brockenholt. “ Mine’s nothing. 
We’ll toddle to bed, shall we? I’ll be up soon.” 

And while Isabel mounted the stairs, he examined 
with obvious distaste Miss Wontner’s scrawling 
handwriting that sloped across the violet notepaper 
so eminently like herself: 

“ . . .1 really do think you might have told 
me, Jimmy! Where did you find her, and what’s 
she like? I shall come and see. I thought the 



116 


RANSOM 


turtle-dove feathers had moulted off you years ago. 
I shall call. You won’t believe me when I wish 
you luck, but I do wish it. I feel rather that I 
should wish her luck. Carlo feels hurt you didn’t 
ask him to be best man. How are the mighty fallen! 
You didn’t go to Capri for a honeymoon, did you?” 

He tore the note in small pieces and tossed the 
fragments into the waste-paper basket. 


CHAPTER II 


He thought over many things as he lunched off 
sandwiches and a half-bottle of Pontet Canet in 
his office the next morning. There was going to 
be little time these coming days for him to go out 
to lunch. Lingfields was getting into its stride. The 
work of the last three years was beginning to bear 
fruit. But there was a struggle to be made before 
the establishing of the business was assured. In 
the September of this year the first murmurs of 
that unforgettable battle were faintly audible. Carlo 
Maude, chief opposition, controlling Motor Trans¬ 
port, was already assembling his reserves. There 
had been a time, six months or so, before his mar¬ 
riage when Brockenholt had suggested to Maude 
an amalgamation. Now this morning Carlo had 
written to say such an arrangement was only pos¬ 
sible on terms to which Lingfields could, as he 
must have known, never agree. So Carlo was 
frankly antagonistic, was he? Carlo was flatter¬ 
ing himself that Motor Transport could match 
Lingfields in the open market? Well, so they could, 
up to a point. But beyond that point was where 
the balance swung to Brockenholt — public opinion. 
Little short of a public scandal which might lower 
Lingfields’ good will, the general public would stand 
by Brockenholt; and the public using the new and 
highly organized method of transport, were the 
determining factor. That was Lingfields’ ace of 
trumps. If Carlo was going to make a nuisance 
117 


118 


RANSOM 


of himself then that card must be played. But 
there wasn’t room for both firms at the top. Some¬ 
body would smash. And that somebody, as every 
one felt at the time, would be Carlo Maude. 

“ It’s no good fighting Brockenholt,” wise men 
said. “ He’s too solid. He’s got the public if he 
wants ’em. The business is based on the public 
confidence. That’s his. If you get a chance, you’ll 
find your money’s safe with Lingfields — if you get 
a chance.” 

“ And you will,” said others, “ you will. If 
they appeal to the public and you can scoop a few 
shares, do it. If this Maude fellow presses too 
hard it’s Lingfields’ opportunity. Come in on it.” 

And with Carlo’s letter another had arrived from 
a manager of one of the sub-depots at Manchester. 
The depot had been opened recently and was the 
newest, one of the many pegs on which the lines 
of transport hung. 

“ There is some dissatisfaction amongst the men,” 
it ran. “ This is most apparent amongst the repair 
staff. Following your instructions we employed men 
who had experience of at least three years in shops. 
Several of the gang of foremen are fully qualified 
B.Sc.’s, only too glad to find work in this country 
which will give them experience. There are five men 
in this category, and it is with these we have had 
most trouble. Motor Transport have been nego¬ 
tiating for a piece of land at Salford. There is every 
reason to believe they intend to build shops there to 
keep their Manchester-Chester line in first class 
order. In point of fact we have already made con¬ 
tracts with Alkali Salts, Ltd., and with Bostrons 
the tea people, who wish to push their stuff New- 


RANSOM 


119 


castle way. I don’t think Motor Transport can 
compete against our fleet of twelve lorries, and 
they’ll find the Eastern market already covered. 
Every one seems very satisfied. I learn, however, 
that the Motor Transport people have been offer¬ 
ing very high wages for qualified repair-men. This 
looks to me like a stunt to put our men discontented. 
We don’t want this to happen as things are just 
beginning to move. I thought you’d be keen to 
have this information. It isn’t the men’s fault, but 
it looks as if Motor Transport are going to have a 
smack at us. Perhaps the wind’s in that direction 
anyway!” 

Brockenholt was sure it was. The same thing 
was happening at Leicester, in Sheffield, in Durham. 
That of course was to be expected, but — if Carlo 
wanted a scrap, he should have it! 

There was a board meeting this afternoon, and 
later, emphasizing his points with a smoke-trailing 
cigar, he outlined his plan of campaign. 

“. . .1 think we’re agreed that the terms 
suggested in Mr. Maude’s letter on behalf of Motor 
Transport are ridiculous and out of the question. 
I don’t know what you think, but I feel it’s his way 
of opening hostilities.” 

“ It’s that indeed,” said Naughton, a grey-faced 
Scotchman, and Brockenholt’s General Manager. 

“ Then there’s this letter from Manchester . . . 
it all points the same way . . . what do you 
suggest, Naughton?” 

Naughton said: 

“ I’m very sure we’ll have to fight the man. 
It’s not the thing to wait awhile: we ought to start 
hitting at once. He can’t touch Lingfields at the 


120 


RANSOM 


moment. It’s the general public that asks to be 
carried, and the big businesses that ask us to do 
their transport, and there’s no one does it better. 
Direct action’ll not be his method, I’m think¬ 
ing -” 

“ You mean?” 

“ He’ll hope to injure us other ways than in 
direct competition on the roads. He’ll be waiting to 
find a flaw in our morals. He’ll not pin his faith on 
rounder wheels, but on disturbing the shareholders.” 

“ You’re a great fellow, Naughton,” said Brocken- 
holt. “ You know your men. You’re right. He 
can’t beat us on the road, but he’ll try to lower our 
prestige elsewhere. He wants watching, does 
Carlo.” 

“ There’ll be no one better to watch than you, 
Mr. Brockenholt,” and Naughton smiled towards 
the Company Secretary. So this afternoon, round 
the long highly polished table, those half-dozen 
men of acute perception and commercially keen 
minds discussed in their amazing ways the possible 
counter-attacks that should be launched against 
the coming offensive of Motor Transport. And 
they enjoyed themselves as only business men of 
such capacity can enjoy themselves and the hap¬ 
piest man present was James Brockenholt. He liked 
a fight: he liked to hear the bitter quickness of 
Naughton’s conjectures: to see how his colleagues 
like himself were eager to break a lance or two 
against their rival: to notice their determination, 
so very merciless, so very hard. He liked it be¬ 
cause he knew these men felt like this, because 
he led them; because they respected and feared him, 
because Lingfields was in very fact James Brock- 



RANSOM 


121 


enholt. All his life he had fought step by step, 
now the best battle of all should come, while Isabel 
waited at home, there as a fountain from which he 
could refresh himself, an inspiration to sharpen him, 
a flame to add to his fire. 

He told her as much that evening. 

“ There’s an exciting time ahead, Isabel. The 
time is coming when there will be only one motor- 
service and that’ll be Lingfields. The opposition 
is beginning to put up a fight.” 

“ That’s Mr. Maude, isn’t it, Jimmy?” 

“ Yes,” he said, “ it’s old friend Carlo.” 

She asked shyly: 

“ Jimmy — it’s always puzzled me — is it a silly 
question?—but if Mr. Maude is your opponent, 
why do you know him so well?” 

Brockenholt laughed. 

“ I think,” he answered, “ that we both like to 
keep each other in sight. In a way our crowd 
are all more or less rivals. It doesn’t do to admit 
it, of course, but we like to keep in touch. It’s 
a glorious mutual suspicion. 

“ But,” he continued, “ we can beat Carlo. I’ll 
tell you my plan. A nice title would suit me very 
well: it would suit Lingfields, too. This is where 
you come in, my dear. We will work it together, 
so for God’s sake, Isabel, get on with these so-called 
friends of mine, they’re going to be useful.” 

“ But, Jimmy — a title? How?” 

“ Ever heard of hard cash?” 

She had nothing to say to that. 

“ Oh, there’s going to be a fine old show sooner 
or later,” he repeated. 

“ And you’ll win, Jimmy?” 


122 


RANSOM 


He smiled down at her. 

“ I shall have to.” 

“ But you will, of course. But, Jimmy dear-” 

“ Yes?” 

“ You know, Jimmy, even if you didn’t — though 
it would be dreadful, and of course it would never 
happen — even if you didn’t, it wouldn’t make any 
real difference between us, would it? I mean, we 
just love one another so awfully much that every¬ 
thing else seems so small and insignificant beside 
it. It’s the one thing nobody could ever take away. 
The only people who could take it away would be 
you or me, and that’s silly, because even if you 
wanted to let it go, I couldn’t. And you wouldn’t 
want to do it, Jimmy dear? Tell me-” 

He tilted her face up to his, two big fingers 
beneath the delicate curve of her chin. 

“ You silly little creature! How often must I 
tell you? Insatiable vanity of women.” 

But the shadow that had fallen across her face 
at her own self-torturing words suddenly, though 
he was getting used to the ache that frequently 
filled him when he saw her loveliness alight for 
him, made him catch his breath with a rush of 
passion, so that he pulled her close to him, his 
great arms crushing her, and his lips closed against 
hers. When he put her down, she laughed in a 
little trembling way, shyly ashamed of her own 
passionate embrace, looking for all the world like 
the child she was, and pulling him by the hand 
led him to his own big arm-chair in the study, 
where she pushed him down into the cushions and 
crouched, as she loved to, at his feet, her head on 
his knee, her cheek against his hand. 




RANSOM 


123 


She was happy like this, with him so near to 
her. It was very comforting. It helped her to 
forget little things that already were beginning to 
trouble her. But, she thought, it was ungrateful 
to acknowledge, even in the smallest of ways, any 
of those small anxieties. If she told him this great 
house, and all the wealth and power it symbolized, 
terrified her, it would be poor return for all his 
generosity and loving kindness. But she wanted 
rather desperately to explain how difficult it was 
for her to manage the place. He’d seemed satisfied 
with his dinner, but he didn’t know what a horrid 
time she’d had this morning ordering it. It had 
seemed so silly for Mrs. Bortle to ask for orders, 
when Mrs. Bortle was an expert and knew much 
better than she did. Mrs. Bortle must have thought 
her an inexperienced creature, not fit to be queen of 
such a palace. If she could have known Mrs. Bortle 
had told the chambermaid: 

“ Too good for ’im, she is, and I ses it. I ses 
to her, ‘ What will the orders be, Madam?’ and she 
says, the pretty little dear, ‘ What orders, Missis 
Bortle?’ ‘ For dinner, Madam,’ ses I. And she 
blushes pink and ses, ‘ What do you think, Missis 
Bortle? Mr. Brocken’olt was very fond of apple¬ 
pudding down at Marlton.’ So I does a souffle, 
dainty-like. The master seldom eats sweets, any¬ 
way. But she doesn’t know, poor little thing. She 
calls me back this morning and asks, 4 Will you do 
the ordering, Mrs. Bortle, or shall I?’ ‘ As you 

will, Madam,’ ses I, ‘ but perhaps you would like to 
see to it now?’ ‘ Very well,’ she ses. But she 
never used the telephone, nor the car either. She 
must have walked round to the shops.” 


124 


RANSOM 


The chambermaid had tossed her head: 

“ Wonder the master didn’t look before he leapt,” 
said she. 

Mrs. Bortle pulled out the flue with a rattle. 

“ You wonder too much, my girl,” had been 
her reply. “ Them that wonders, flounders. Little 
dear she is and no mistake. Not like them other 
rackety females that used to come here to see the 
master, up to all sorts of games, and no good either, 
I’ll be bound. I would have been leaving if such 
going-ons hadn’t stopped. But I won’t now,” she 
added darkly. 

But the chambermaid was a lady of spirit. “ Those 
that likes to leave can leave, can’t they, Mrs. Bortle? 
I’m used to things very different.” 

“ And well you might be,” from Mrs. Bortle. 

Only Lisette, to whom they had as yet not grown 
accustomed, had broken into a high warbling laugh¬ 
ter: 

“ La, la,” she shrilled. “ Ohe ” 

“ Well, what now?” the chambermaid had 
snapped. 

“ No matter,” said Lisette. “ Vous ne le pigerez 
pas quand meme je le vous disais! But Madam is 
too beautiful to — you say?—discuss.” 

But Isabel, crouched beside her husband, knew 
of none of these things. If only, she thought, I 
could ask him. But her pride would not allow it 
for fear that he might be disappointed in her. And 
she felt a little chilly touch of loneliness. Those 
icy fingers of her unwelcome fear made her shiver, 
and the hand against her cheek moved and two 
fingers pinched her neck gently. There was this 


RANSOM 


125 


question of a purchased title as well . . . was that 
quite right? quite — honourable? 

“ What’s the matter?” 

“ Nothing, Jimmy dear-” 

“ Nonsense! What is the matter?” 

“ Well-” 

Perhaps, after all, she would ask him, confide in 
him. It wouldn’t be a bit nice though, and he might 
think her silly and perhaps not quite understand. 
But she’d better do it- 

“ Well?” 

“ Was everything all right, Jimmy? Dinner — 
and — and everything.” 

“ Of course, silly one! Why?” 

“ Because-” How futile what she’d got to 

say would sound! 

“ Go on!” 

“ Because — I wanted it to be! ” 

He laughed. 

“ What a strange little soul you are! Is that all?” 

No, it wasn’t all and she knew it. But she said: 

“ I’m glad, darling Jim.” 

The telephone bell rang and he went into the 
drawing room to answer it. As she listened to the 
rumbling of his voice, she realized she’d lost her 
opportunity. She wouldn’t have the courage to try 
again. What a little fool I am, she thought. But 
years afterwards, remembering that evening, she 
asked herself, whose fault had it been that the 
opportunity had vanished, his with his wide knowl¬ 
edge or hers in her ignorance, a child’s ignorance? 
She never found an answer. 





CHAPTER III 


There is a popular axiom that the young learn 
quickly. Like all generalizations it is but half-truth. 
It is forgotten to say that also the young learn hardly. 
The value of knowledge gained outweighs remem¬ 
brance of the pains in that acquiring, but the first 
entry into new surroundings is often an agony only 
heightened by its later recognized futility. There is 
always an audience and stage fright is not confined 
to the theatre. And Isabel, mistress and as yet not 
mistress of the house in Fulham Square, was learn¬ 
ing. Brockenholt, absorbed in the new developments 
of Lingfields, equally absorbed in the new delight of 
possessing Isabel, overlooked, like many a man in 
love, the very obvious. The glamour of his discovery 
of her, of the discovery of his other self down at 
Marlton that day when he had found his initials 
carved in the desk, the uprush of his passion for this 
sweet thing of youth, the reciprocation of that desire, 
its culmination in the marriage in the country church, 
the triumphant pageant of his awakened emotions, 
all tended to obscure the facts of Isabel’s present dif¬ 
ficulties within herself. He forgot blithely and com¬ 
pletely that whereas he was at home in this old 
existence of his, she was at every turn confronted 
with small humiliations and despairs. He had swept 
her out of her quiet backwater into the turbulent 
midstream of his own affairs. He loved her as a man 
loves his own right hand, taking it for granted that 
it obeys his instinctive desires automatically and by 
126 


RANSOM 


127 


cause of nature. She was the concrete symbol of his 
aroused and inner self, striving for expression. He 
remembered himself in her, whereas she forgot her¬ 
self in him. Devoted, intent on giving as much, or 
more, as, she considered, she had received, deter¬ 
mined to understand and please him, she thought 
only of combating the difficulties surrounding her for 
his sake. But whereas his gift was coin of metal, 
hers was coin of her heart, and of these last there is 
no easy reckoning. Moreover, the dashing lover 
Brockenholt was a different person to the sophisti¬ 
cated husband Brockenholt. There was perhaps a 
touch of fear in her devotion, but a fear great only 
by reason of her own fear of failing or disappointing 
him. But that she loved him most passionately, 
most deeply, there was no doubt. Like a god he 
had marched out of the night to claim her; like a 
god she worshipped him. 

She spent the first week in the house in Fulham 
Square in a series of agonies and delights. The 
routine of the house had to be learnt. Picture her 
wandering like a child from room to lofty room, 
finding, it seemed at every minute, some new thing 
to surprise her. She wrote to her mother: 

“ You’ve never seen such a wonderful home, Mum 
darling. It’s so big that I feel like a little mouse 
in daddy’s potting shed! It’s so very different hav¬ 
ing everything done for you. You mustn’t even 
dress yourself or fetch things for yourself, or let 
anybody think you could help yourself in any way. 
I’m afraid I shall get awfully lazy, but now I’m 
what you called ‘ a great lady ’ I must do what is 
right. Jimmy is a marvellous person. He bought 


128 


RANSOM 


me scores of lovely dresses when we were passing 
through Paris on the way back. Every day he 
brings some new present for me. What do you 
think the latest is? He asked me to call for him 
at his office yesterday and we went round to an 
enormous shop in Pall Mall. There, waiting for 
me, was a little yellow motor-car, all for me! Can 
you see me driving about in it? Isn’t it too won¬ 
derful? Jimmy says he wants me to become the 
loveliest woman in London. I can’t help thinking 
how difficult that’s going to be for poor little Isabel. 
I’m sure I’m the happiest girl in the world. I do love 
Jimmy.” 

And Mrs. Luke, after reading extracts to Mrs. 
Brayham, wrote back: 

My Darling Isabel: 

It was most gratifying to receive your grateful 
letter. I always felt dear James would be the man 
for you. You must not let your new environment 
bewilder you. I’m sure your father and I have 
always done our best to prepare you for the life of 
a lady. The Lukes have invariably found places 
of responsibility and position in the world. You 
will please give my love to James. Your father 
has a nasty attack of catarrh at the moment, but 
hopes soon to be better and to write to you. Eliza¬ 
beth asks me to send her love and to say how much 
she misses you. My heart is a little better. The 
chickens from next door have eaten all your father’s 
young lettuces. It is very trying. The grocer’s 
daughter has returned from her long stay in Edin¬ 
burgh. I fear the reason of her long sojourn is 


RANSOM 


129 


not far to seek. It is such a pity when the lower 
classes forget what is due from them. The Master 
preached in Chapel last Sunday. Would you like 
me to send on your winter combinations, that you 
so thoughtlessly left behind? Lord and Lady Home 
give a party next week. We hope to go. We have 
begun fires already. I am glad to say coal is cheaper 
this autumn. Do not forget to be a good wife to 
James. Mrs. Brayham has cut out the announce¬ 
ment of the wedding in the Times. I found it 
pasted into her album the other day. 

Your Loving Mother. 

P.S.— Please let me know about the combinations. 

But a day or so later Isabel received a letter from 
her father. It was the first letter she had ever had 
from him and its contents somewhat puzzled her. 
Only latterly had she seen, by comparison, what a 
strange thing Archie Luke was. Somehow before 
she had taken him for granted in the little house 
at the corner of the Common, he had seemed like one 
of the bobbles on Mum’s dress. Something a part of 
Mum’s equipage, a necessary but small item. 

My Dear Daughter (he wrote),— 

I should have appreciated a line from you before 
this. I understand your mother has heard from 
you. Nevertheless it doesn’t really matter. Like 
flies, I am one of the accepted facts of this world. 
What with all the excitement at your marriage 
(I cannot conceive why!) I hardly seemed able 
to get a word in with you. Let me wish you 
now all those things I so badly wanted to wish 
you. Marriage is a difficult game and needs a 
strong admixture of common sense. I would like 


130 


RANSOM 


above all things to know you are truly happy, and 
to think you had not quite forgotten one whose 
share in you, even if minute, is jealously appreciated. 

Your fond father, 
Archibald Luke. 

For some strange reason, unaccountable even to 
herself, Isabel tore up the first letter and kept the 
second. It was, indeed, while she was finishing 
writing to her father that the front door bell clanged 
to herald the threatened invasion of Miss Sophie 
Wontner. 

“ ... So Daddy darling, you mustn’t ever think 
I’ll ever forget you ”— she’d just written as the maid 
appeared at the door of her boudoir, with: 

“ There is a lady called, Madam. Miss Wont¬ 
ner.” 

Isabel dropped her pen. 

“ Who?” she asked. 

“ Miss Wontner, Madam.” 

Wontner — Wontner! She knew that name, 
didn’t she? Why, yes — and suddenly she saw 
again the crown of a gold and green hat before 
her, a white neck bared, with a string of jade beads 
resting against it, and a vivid memory of her own 
inadequate white blouse and pleated skirt. Instinc¬ 
tively she looked down at herself. But the sight 
of her slender feet in the long patent shoes, her 
ankles encased in silk, real silk stockings, and the 
soft folds of her blood-crimson tea-gown, dispelled 
that instant’s nightmare. Even so she felt her 
cheeks grow hot. 

“ Shall I say you’ll be down, Madam?’” 

“ Yes — oh, yes!” 


RANSOM 


131 


“ And ask Waller to bring tea, Madam?” 

“ What? Oh — please — yes! ” 

She ran upstairs to her room. As she hurriedly 
powdered her nose her hand trembled. What was 
the matter now, she thought. She wasn’t nervous, 
of course she wasn’t. There was nothing so very 
dreadful about any one calling, it was the sort of 
thing to be expected. Strange, though, that the first 
caller should be Miss Wontner, who’d been down 
at Marlton with Jimmy — a friend of that Mr. 
Maude’s, wasn’t she? She seemed to remember that 
Jimmy had said so. Well, she would go down and 
tackle the woman . . . tackle her? That suggested 
a certain amount of animosity. That was funny, 
because, of course, she liked and admired Miss 
Wontner, although she’d only seen her at a distance, 
as it were. 

Sophie was examining the gilt mirror over the 
mantelpiece in the drawing room as Isabel entered. 
She was very intent on the mirror it seemed. As 
a matter of fact Miss Wontner could see the door 
in the reflection and at the same time show to the 
best advantage the immaculate line of her small 
but lovely back in its cunningly tailored grey gabar¬ 
dine coat and skirt, with the red squirrel fur twisted 
appropriately over her shoulder, her umbrella prop¬ 
ping her up. She only turned, with a start of 
feigned surprise, when Isabel was half-way across 
the room. Her red little mouth opened into a smile. 

“ Mrs. Brockenholt, how do you do?” 

The tips of her gloved fingers touched Isabel’s 
outstretched hand. 

“ We’ve met before, haven’t we? Down in the 
— er — country.” 


132 


RANSOM 


“ How do you do?” said Isabel, and “ Won’t you 
sit down?” 

“ I will,” said Miss Wontner, “ and be damned 
glad to do so. A hot autumn’s hell in London.” 

“ It is hot,” said Isabel, and sat down opposite 
her caller. 

Slowly and deliberately Sophie peeled off her 
glove. She loosened the catch of the squirrel fur 
and threw one end back from her shoulder. Be¬ 
neath her hat two tufts of her flaming hair bushed 
out, vivid against her very white cheeks. She 
crossed one leg over the other. 

“ You mustn’t think it impertinent of me to call,” 
she said. “ But it was so sweet of you to give up 
your chair to me that day when Jim — when your 
husband spoke in the College, and he and I have been 
friends for a long time.” 

“ I think it’s very nice of you to trouble to come 
round,” replied Isabel shyly. 

Miss Wontner smiled again. 

“ Not a bit. By the way, your husband’s done 
a lot to the house, hasn’t he?” 

“ You knew it before?” asked Isabel. “ Yes, 
he’s had it done up.” 

“ I have dined here,” said Miss Wontner. “ Carlo 
— did you meet him, Mr. Maude? — and I used 
to come to parties that Jim — forgive the Christian 
name, habit! —gave here.” 

“ I see,” said Isabel. 

Waller entered and there was little to be said 
whilst he prepared the tea. 

“ You take sugar?” 

“ Three lumps. Thanks. By the way, how’s 
Lingfields?” 


RANSOM 


133 


There was a sharpness about the question that 
disturbed Isabel. 

“ I think it’s going very well, thank you. Jimmy 
seems very excited about it.” 

“ He always was of course.” 

Something of that remote coldness that in later 
years was to be her best weapon came to Isabel 
on that remark. These cryptic comments directed 
against the godhead Jimmy were things not to be 
tolerated. She said nothing. She inclined her 
golden head. 

But Sophie with a little twist of her lips and a 
mockery in her eyes, shadowed beneath the brim 
of her hat, leant forward: 

“ I asked you not to think me impertinent, Mrs. 
Brockenholt. Everybody always does, and I am. 
I can’t help it. But honesty being my only virtue, 
I’ll risk saying that your home is very beautiful.” 

What a strange person this little red-haired, self- 
possessed, vivid little thing is, thought Isabel; I don’t 
understand her, but underneath I do believe she’s 
kind. 

There was, beside, a genuine note of sincerity in 
Sophie’s last statement. The house was very beauti¬ 
ful, but beyond its mere outward glory Miss Wont- 
ner understood something of the motive that had 
prompted this renovation. She knew her Brocken¬ 
holt very well, did Sophie, and sitting opposite this 
new acquisition of his she pondered deeply. Was 
this phase in Brockenholt to last; was he, like his 
house, renovated; or was it but a sudden flash that 
would sink again when the devil in him, that side she 
knew so well, should arise once more? Would the 
gilt wear off? It was not in her nature to feel 


134 


RANSOM 


jealousy as such: she had too much philosophy of 
her own kind to let her emotions run away with her. 
Certainly on that hateful night when Jimmy had 
dismissed her, something beyond her all-covering 
practical comprehension had occurred. But she had 
stamped that weakness, she termed it as such, down 
in her mind. Now the sight of this shy slip of a girl 
before her awoke memory of that stifled emotion. 
But leaning back among the cushions, watching 
Isabel pour out the tea, she felt a sudden twinge 
of pity for her: a sense of loss for even herself. 
It was all so drastically commonplace. It was what 
every man did within his means. Yet, granting 
the fact of inevitable disillusion didn’t perhaps this 
labelling of a woman with the name of wife, this 
outward show of affection, mean that most precious 
of women’s desires, security? There were times 
when Sophie became tired of the endless race, with 
the pace set just too fast, running just above power. 
There was much to be said for marriage. But would 
this pale Isabel with the child’s eyes and crudely 
sweet ways ever learn that this security was the 
better part of matrimony from a sensible woman’s 
practical viewpoint? Had she raised an idol upon 
too lofty a pedestal, and when the statue toppled, 
would she be the sort of woman to build from the 
broken pieces something for her heart’s comfort? 
Was she the kind, the only kind, who could realize 
love meant in such circumstances safety ? Ah, well, 
these things had to be learnt, and no one could 
impart that vital knowledge to another. Poor baby, 
thought Sophie. I wonder if she knows about Jim 
and me? I’d like to put that straight if it’s troubling 
her. 


RANSOM 


135 


“ I’m glad you like the house,” said Isabel. 
Lord, but how the child flushed when she said that, 
knowing that all this had been done for her! I’d 
like to tell her, mused Miss Wontner, that paint gets 
dirty in time. But she said: 

“ Your husband always had excellent taste. I 
don’t even need to see the house only, for that!” 
And Isabel was crimson. 

Miss Wontner chuckled, 

“ You young brides! Good God, no offence! But 
— you young brides! ” 

Slowly the colour drained out of Isabel’s cheeks. 
A white fierce light spread over her eyes, an angry, 
childishly-insulted look. She would not tolerate 
this. 

“ I don’t understand, I’m afraid.” 

Sophie tapped a cigarette upon the table. 

“ Oh, I’m sorry. Indeed I am, Mrs. Brockenholt. 
I wish I didn’t speak out my mind. But you 
wouldn’t understand and I wouldn’t ask you to. 
Don’t let’s misunderstand, anyway. See,” — she lit 
the cigarette — “ You don’t mind my smoking? 
See, I think James Brockenholt a very lucky man.” 

“ Thank you!” 

A great desire to laugh came over Miss Wontner. 
This virginal dignity, what a thing it was! Well, 
well. . . . She tossed the cigarette into the grate 
and picked up the squirrel fur. 

“ I must run along. Will you come and see me 
sometime, Mrs. Brockenholt?” She stretched out 
her hand, this time taking a firm hold of Isabel’s 
icy fingers. 

“ I do wish you all and every happiness, please.” 

“ Thank you.” 


136 


RANSOM 


Very well then, if the little fool wouldn’t be 
sensible, she wouldn’t. I can’t change my spots, 
decided Miss Wontner, and I’ve done my best. 
Women are idiots, and I’m another I suppose to try 
and like Jimmy’s wife. She’ll learn. 

“ Good-bye, Mrs. Brockenholt.” From beneath 
sounded the slam of the front door. 

“ Good-bye.” 

But as they reached the door, it swung suddenly 
open to admit the large form of James Brockenholt. 


CHAPTER IV 


“ Hullo !” said Miss Wontner. “ Hullo, Jim!” 

And then Isabel made her first mistake. The 
accumulated little difficulties of the last week had 
tended to unnerve her. For the last half-hour she 
had been struggling with a situation she could 
neither understand nor handle. Sophie was to her, 
had always been since the occasion of their first 
meeting, an enigma. She had given this woman 
the hospitality forced by herself and had listened 
to a string of clipped phrases, which alternately 
pleased or wounded. There had been no question 
as to who had had the whip-hand. Sophie’s inso¬ 
lence (to any one else a little wiser, more at home 
in her own home, that behaviour would have been 
only amusing) had tightened imperceptibly the ten¬ 
sion within Isabel. Now, like an answer to her 
prayers for a respite, Jimmy had returned early 
from the office. Jimmy was here, two paces before 
her; some one who would protect her and not let 
her be hurt any more. Her Jimmy who could deal 
with anything difficult and who would put this horrid 
woman in her place. She fled to him for that pro¬ 
tection and on the impulse, without pausing to con¬ 
sider, flung her arms about his neck, with, 

“ Jimmy, how early you are! I am so pleased 
to see you.” 

It was the natural thing for this child Isabel to 
do. But even as her hands touched his shoulders 
she felt him start back. He took her wrists gently 
137 


138 


RANSOM 


but firmly and loosened her hold. He kissed her 
perfunctorily on the forehead, and looking up she 
saw his face dark and thunderous, his deep eyes 
blazing with anger. He was not looking down at 
her, but over her head at Sophie Wontner, who, 
leaning upon her neatly rolled umbrella, was regard¬ 
ing the scene with a sweet and innocent smile. 

“ Dear Jim, how charming!” she murmured. 

Instinctively he pushed his wife behind him, and 
with his eyes fixed wrathfully upon Sophie, stepped 
forward. 

“ How do you do, Sophie? You’re just off, I 
suppose?” 

Miss Wontner nodded brightly, 

“ Just off, yes. It was nice to see you, though.” 

“ Good-bye, Mrs. Brockenholt — oh, don’t bother, 
Jim.” 

His form still between his wife and her, Brocken¬ 
holt opened the door, 

“ I’ll see you down.” 

“ Don’t you bother.” 

“ I will see you down.” 

As they descended the stairs, Waller appeared 
from the back of the hall and crossed to the front¬ 
door. 

“ All right, Waller.” 

The man quickly retreated at Brockenholt’s 
furious jerk of the head. 

At the door Brockenholt said quietly, 

“ I shall see you to the bottom of the road.” 

“ I’ll be off the premises in a moment, Jim.” 

He said nothing. The door slammed to behind 
them. They walked twenty paces before he stopped 
and fronted her. 


RANSOM 


139 


“ Now/’ he said very steadily, “ may I ask the 
meaning of this?” 

Sophie screwed the point of her umbrella into a 
chink of the pavement, and glancing up sideways 
at the wicked face above her, 

“ I said I should call, Jim. So I did.” 

That old sneer curved across his face. 

“ Do you want money?” 

Miss Wontner sighed, exasperated. 

“ My dear Jim, it’s very silly to insult me in that 
way.” 

“ Well, what’s the idea, please?” 

She stopped digging with the umbrella and faced 
him squarely. 

“ I came here, Jim, in all good faith. I came to 
see your wife and to wish her luck. I came 
because, naturally enough, I was curious. Every 
one, except apparently that poor child, knows of 
our previous relationship. I came to call like a 
respectable woman to see if by doing that she 
would realize I meant to be friends. I should never 
have come again. You can believe me or not, 
but if that child had known I should have told 
her not to worry. I’ve finished with you, you poor 
thing. I should have realized that you’d marry a 
baby. Kidnapping, I thought, wasn’t in your line. 
Apparently it is. You know I speak the truth, 
because you know I’m honest.” 

“But, good God,” he exclaimed, “ how did you 
know who I’d married? You base the motive of 
this preposterous visit on the assumption that my 
wife’s less — shall I say — worldly than you!” 

She laughed. “ How did I know? My dear 
Jimmy, was I blind at Marl ton? Anyway, it’s not 


140 


RANSOM 


my fault, is it, if both of you behave vilely badly 
and make a scene?” 

“ Get out!” he snapped. 

She shrugged her shoulders and turned away. 
A dozen yards from him she waved her dainty hand. 

“ You’re too sweet for words, Jimmy, as a turtle¬ 
dove.” 

“ Blast you!” he said, and returned to the house. 

Isabel was still in the drawing room, crouched 
up in one corner of the sofa. Her husband flung 
himself into an armchair. The fire had gone out 
of his eyes but they were still cold and bitter. 

From her corner Isabel whispered, 

“ Oh, Jimmy dear, I’m so awfully glad you came 
in. What a terrible woman!” 

Brockenholt said nothing, but groped in his pocket 
for a pipe. It wasn’t there and he swore softly 
beneath his breath. 

“ You needn’t have done that,” he said abruptly. 

She raised her hands pitifully, 

“ What, Jimmy? What?” 

“ Made a fool of me.” 

She choked back the tears, her slim shoulders 
shaking. 

“ I’m sorry, Jimmy — I’m — so — sorry — 
Jimmy.” 

“ Oh, all right!” and then, “ What did she say 
to you?” 

“ She — who? Oh, nothing. Who is she?” 

He rose to his feet and stood before the fireplace. 

“ Her name,” he said, “ is Sophie Wontner. You 
must have met her down at Marlton. I knew her 
years ago. We had what is known as an affair.” 

“ An affair, Jimmy?” 


RANSOM 


141 


“ Yes, my dear girl. An affair. There is nothing 
more to be said. Are you satisfied?” 

She rose and came to him and put her face 
against his coat, 

“ Satisfied, my darling? But I was never dis¬ 
satisfied. It’s nothing to me what you did before 
you met me, my dear. I only want you now. 
What is the matter, Jimmy?” 

Yes, what really was the matter? What was he 
making such a mountain out of a mole-hill for, 
he thought. Was he coming perilously near to 
making a fool of himself — for nothing? Or was 
it nothing? Had Sophie and her confounded inso¬ 
lence upset him — or — dare he face that thought, 
or his wife and her forcing them all into this absurd 
tangle by making him ridiculous before that other 
woman? My God, but how Sophie must be laugh¬ 
ing now! 

“ You ought not-” he began, and then noticed 

with a violent sense of shame and horror that Isabel 
was crying against him: sobbing quietly and terribly. 

“ Oh, my dear!” he said. “ Isabel, sweetheart! 
It’s nothing, nothing at all. You mustn’t cry like 
that. Please, Isabel! You mustn’t cry. It’s 
nothing.” 

And then her wet cheek was against his, and her 
smothered voice in his ear, 

“ I am so sorry, Jimmy, to be a little ass. Kiss 
me, Jimmy.” 

And as he kissed her he murmured, 

“ Nothing at all, my darling, nothing at all.” 

But with her head beneath his lips, her fingers 
gripping his coat, he thought — nothing — or was 
it . . . No, nothing at all! 



CHAPTER V 


But if the invasion of the house in Fulham Square 
by Sophie Wontner disturbed Brockenholt and 
frightened Isabel, the days that followed all tended 
to disperse any wayward unwanted thoughts in their 
minds. Painfully but surely Isabel took command 
of her duties. Lisette was proving her worth. That 
shrewd lady said little to Mrs. Bortle or to the rest 
of the household staff, but tended her young mistress 
with care and cunning art. 

Dressing one night, Isabel asked her, 

“ Don’t you ever get tired, Lisette, spending all 
your days dressing up other people and not having 
time to dress up yourself?” 

“ Sometimes, yes, Madam. In my former place, 
I grew very tired often. Madam, there she go — 
this,” with an all-encircling gesture of her hands. 
“ Very big. Ugly. But with Madam I am happy, 
thank you.” 

“ Because ” — asked Isabel — “ because I am like 
this?” She imitated the gesture reversing the indi¬ 
cation of it. 

Lisette laughed. 

“ Ah, Madam makes fun of me! But I am 
happy here.” 

“ I’m happy too, Lisette.” 

“ But, of course. Monsieur is very fond of 
Madam in her gowns, which are so beautiful.” 

That amused Isabel. 


142 


RANSOM 


143 


“ Only because of my gowns, Lisette?” 

“ Monsieur is a man,” replied that wise woman. 

“ And you think men only like women when they 
are beautifully cared for? They like just their — 
their outward sort of beauty, Lisette?” 

The maid folded the dress beneath her hands 
before replying. Then, “ Once I was all in love 
with a poet, Madam. He too lived in Paris and 
came often past the window of the shop where I 
sewed. I was a seamstress then, Madam. We got 
to know each other, and he take me very often to the 
woods of Fontainebleau, and point out the stars. 
What a man! But I tire Madam?” 

“ No, no! Do go on, Lisette.” 

“ He was a good poet, they tell me. But I 
never read his poetry! Such stuff! He would talk 
for hours, Madam, about the flowers and birds and 
me. He tell me more about my soul, Madam, than 
I knew myself. He tell me, ‘ Lisette, you are as 
beautiful as the little pink rose-petals.’ ‘ You are 
simple beauty, Lisette.’ Pouf! He was a stupid 
man. We used to walk through the woods, hand in 
hand, till I say, ‘ Do not we go now to eat some¬ 
where?’ and he would say, ‘ How can I hunger with 
you beside me, Lisette!’ It was very tiresome. 
Then I got acquainted with another gentleman who 
was a merchant. He sold cigars in a kiosk in the 
Boulevard des Italiens. I liked him very much. 
He bought me gowns, Madam, and gave me much to 
eat. So I leave the first man, because, Madam, 
I know nothing about my soul, but I do know when 
I am hungry.” 

“ Oh, Lisette,” said Isabel, “ that was not very 
fair or kind.” 


144 


RANSOM 


“ Perhaps not, Madam. But it was good busi¬ 
ness. Women must make good business, Madam. 
Love is ver’ good business.” 

“ I think that’s horrid,” said Isabel. “ It isn’t 
like that a bit.” 

“ Will Madam wear the silver gown tonight or 
the crimson?” 

Isabel told Brockenholt the story, next morning 
at breakfast. She always insisted on rising the 
same hour as he did and taking the meal with him. 
He laid down his paper and smiled across the table 
at her. 

“ Well?” 

“ Wasn’t it mean of Lisette?” 

“ I don’t know,” answered Brockenholt. “ She 
seems a sensible woman.” And Isabel dropped the 
subject. 

Now from time to time came other callers to 
examine critically the bride of the great James 
Brockenholt. Mrs. Naughton alone aroused Isabel’s 
interest. She was a tall, buxom woman, exceedingly 
handsome in her rather massive way, dressed 
invariably in clothes smartly unfashionable. Being 
exactly thirty years older than Isabel, she took 
it upon herself to adopt a maternal attitude towards 
her youthful hostess. Strangely enough that atti¬ 
tude suited her. 

“ I think she’s awfully nice,” Isabel told her 
husband. 

“ Do you,” he asked and then, “ I’m always 
frightened of her. I feel any moment she may want 
to bath me and put me to bed.” 

But that didn’t shake Isabel’s belief in what 
Brockenholt called “ an outsize in Scotchwomen,” 


RANSOM 


145 


But Mrs. Naughton was the only one Isabel cared 
for. As for the others . . . 

They were a wide and strangely assorted crowd, 
these friends of James Brockenholt. They were 
all of them immensely rich, from Carlo Maude and 
Horace Stanhope Svenk to Mrs. Proutopoli. 

“ They’ll come and see,” her husband told her; 
“ they’re all a dirty lot.” 

“A dirty lot!” Then: “But if that’s so why 
do you have them as friends, Jimmy dear?” the 
words voicing her surprise. 

“ Why? Because they’re useful. Especially Mrs. 
Proutopoli.” 

That seemed to her a queer reason for having 
friends, because they were useful. Down at Marl- 
ton you had known people either because the place 
being so small you had to, or because you liked 
them. The latter reason had always been Isabel’s. 
Nevertheless Jimmy had said “ they ” were useful 
and she must do his bidding, as she would do any¬ 
thing in the world for him, so much she loved him. 
In point of fact Mrs. Proutopoli did not call, but 
wrote on deckle-edged notepaper to Mrs. James 
Brockenholt asking to be excused; “an effete con¬ 
vention,” whatever that might have meant, being 
her reason, and suggesting that Mrs. James Brock¬ 
enholt with her husband might care to dine at her 
house in Portman Square — “ quite a small little 
party.” 

Growing already accustomed to a form of inverted 
exaggeration Isabel was not surprised to find the 
“ small party ” consisting of seven couples. This 
Portman Square house was incredibly larger than 
Brockenholt’s. It was a monster of a house, ugly 


146 


RANSOM 


and enormous and filled with price^ss possessions. 
As is common knowledge, Timon Proutopoli acquired 
during the latter part of the war a considerable 
fortune. It is not to be believed, though, for one 
moment that Timon Proutopoli achieved financial 
kingship by illicit or dishonourable means. He had 
been in his way a kindly fellow with no spare 
moments. He had made money as men make 
bricks. It was a gift. He devoted his life to that 
accomplishment and at the height of success, when 
he was angling for a knighthood, died of congestion 
of the lungs, during the influenza epidemic of nine¬ 
teen-twenty. At an age of forty-six, Mrs. Prouto¬ 
poli, who years past had as a fine lump of a girl 
been wooed and won by the good Timon, some¬ 
where east of the Grecian archipelago, found herself 
in a position, fortified by her late husband’s down¬ 
pouring dividends, to set about establishing herself 
in Portman Square as a lady of note. It is very 
much to the credit of Mrs. Proutopoli that she 
nearly succeeded. Now she was accepted leader 
of a floating society that drifted on one coast, as it 
were, towards the shore of lesser London society in 
the strictest sense and on the other swept the beach 
of what Timon had called “ good big money.” 
Through this sea, as always, the Israelites cleaved 
a way, crossing without getting their shoes wet from 
that despised shore of their own to the promised 
land of their desire. But only to the discerning 
might this undercurrent of moneyed snobbery and 
rather pitiful denial of race be apparent. Not many 
people who dined, danced and talked at Mrs. Prou- 
topoli’s recognized those casual, rather too common¬ 
place-looking individuals who strolled aimlessly from 


RANSOM 


147 


room to room, or sat nonchalantly upon isolated 
and gilded chairs to be members of a private detec¬ 
tive agency. Only the very wide-awakes would 
realize that the two Rembrandts in the salon were 
spaced exactly to greet the incoming guests’ bewil¬ 
dered eyes, regardless of the truly aesthetic principles 
of spacing involved. Brockenholt called the house 
“ the flunkeyed museum,” but that, though con¬ 
taining true criticism, was yet an exaggeration. It 
was very characteristic of him to attend such 
functions with a sneer. The reason was not far to 
seek. He had had literally no time at all to spend 
cultivating friends as friends, or culture as culture. 
Lingfields enveloped him. Nevertheless, acquain¬ 
tance with “ good big money ” was a necessary 
acquisition for business. But he was not of this 
wide class. He despised them and scarcely con¬ 
cealed his contempt. Nobody else but James Brock¬ 
enholt could, as Horace Stanhope Svenk put it, 
“ have got away with it.” But if Brockenholt ruth¬ 
lessly shouldered his passage across such drawing 
rooms, it was certain that he in turn was disliked. 
Many a man would dearly have liked to see Brock¬ 
enholt take a fall. Many a man knew how improb¬ 
able that event was. Now this evening he was going 
to stride amongst them decorated with a jewel, 
lovelier, more brilliant than even their great pos¬ 
sessions. Isabel was that jewel. 

Tonight in the smaller drawing room, the one 
with the Whistler and Venetian glass, Mrs. Prouto- 
poli, her very round white shoulders bubbling out 
of her black-and-silver gown, her black hair with 
most of the frizzle dressed out of it, her little black 
eyes like sloes, her short, lumpy figure, was talking 


148 


RANSOM 


to Carlo Maude and Lady Lydia Wing of film fame, 
while Horace Stanhope Svenk asked Peggy Moulton 
if old Moulton was still on the track of Chelsea 
grotesques. Mr. Save Savour, that very Oxford 
novelist, confided to a tall freckled-faced young man 
that his only excuse for coming was that two situ¬ 
ations of his new novel took place within this very 
room. The freckled young man, ill at ease beneath 
Mr. Savour’s monocle, nodded from time to time 
and smiled helplessly. He watched the door with a 
certain anxiety, he perhaps being most curious of 
all present to see Mrs. Brockenholt. The remainder 
of die guests glittered and gabbled. Into this exotic 
mixture then came James Brockenholt and Isabel. 
Very shy, very lovely, white and radiant was Isabel: 
swaying into the room like a breath of early morning 
breeze. So that the freckled young man, Leonard 
Lang-Davies, invited who knows why, if not for his 
small “ pull with the Press,” burnt red beneath his 
freckles in recognizing this beautiful lady as the 
long-legged, black-stockinged Isabel Luke of ten 
years ago. 

He stared at her, while Mr. Savour’s words 
dropped unheeded. Little wild Isabel grown like 
this! Perhaps girls grew up, changed more quickly 
than boys! That colt-like lankiness had dropped 
into slim height, that tumbled mass of curls had 
become a golden crown. Her cheeks were pink, her 
eyes half-startled, half-alight with excitement. But 
he seemed to know intuitively that only too willingly 
would the legs and feet beneath the clinging gown 
have kicked that cloying magnificence away, and 
with short white skirt and brown shoes carried their 
owner out of the house, out of this confining tangle 


RANSOM 


149 


of streets to where the track sloped straight to 
Barbary and the grass was good to run upon. A wild 
sweet thing caught and cared for, he thought, a 
wild thing that should be free. Well, perhaps she 
wouldn’t recognize him now. He’d heard, of course. 
But supposing she didn’t remember him? Did that 
matter? He knew it did. Somehow that would 
hurt him dreadfully, to think that those times 
were forgotten, when — he smiled at that memory’s 
awakened picture — when together they’d poached 
trout down by Marlton weir, and when they’d 
walked in silence through the forest, each pre¬ 
tending that the other was very much grown-up 
and making up a queer romance that within them¬ 
selves placed the other in role of hero and heroine. 
They had confessed as much one day. He’d like 
her to remember those things and the other things 
not said. Not, of course, that there had at that 
time been anything beyond the fantastic to remark, 
but now seeing her so splendid and so beautiful, 
those memories would be a lovely secret that was 
wholly innocent and could legitimately be denied to 
any one else. So he stared at her as only such a 
very young and honest young man could stare, 
hoping very much that she was happy, knowing her 
simplicity, trying to convince himself that the flush 
of her cheeks and the light of her eyes were signs 
of pleasure and not of bewilderment. Well, her hus¬ 
band was there to look after her. There was no 
doubt of how proud he was of her. So he should 
be! But proud ... a dangerous wicked thing 
pride! Better to be humble with her, to be proud 
perhaps to be in a position to live beside her, not, 
never that, to be proud because she belonged1 


150 


RANSOM 


Now Mrs. Proutopoli was shaking hands with 
them. 

“ So charming*of you! And James — too.” 

Brockenholt swept the room with a searchlight 
of a glance. Ah! they were looking at her, were 
they! Well, let ’em look! 

Isabel was nervous. 

“ Face of a Madonna,” said young Lang-Davies 
to himself. 

“ Ah, Brock — how are you?” Carlo, very glossy 
and handsome, crossing the room. “ Mrs. Brock¬ 
enholt, you remember me?” 

Shaking of hands, bowings, nods, ripple of con¬ 
versation. . . . Carlo’s voice in Brockenholt’s ear. 

“Congj^ts! Brock! She’s a peach.” 

“ Is she?” asked Brockenholt. “ What the hell 
do you know about peaches, anyway?” 

“ Oh, quite a bit,” replied Mr. Maude. “ Quite 
a teeny weeny bit.” 

At dinner Isabel sat next to Horace Svenk with 
Carlo on her left. Opposite, Brockenholt saturnine 
but glowing watched her with possessive bold eyes. 
Fortunately Isabel had little need to rack her con¬ 
fused brains for conversation. Horace Svenk, who 
was also of a chosen people, kept her occupied in 
listening to the wonders of his native land. 

“ Why, the other night, Mrs. Brockenholt, after 
dancing past the clock I walked right home from 
South Kensington to Jermyn Street. It’s some little 
march, I guess. I do think this town’s got us 
beat someways, but I’ll tell you where America 
can provide something you’ve not helped yourselves 
to. I couldn’t find a fried-chicken carriage any- 


RANSOM 


151 


where. You’ve got your coffee-stands, but it’s fried 
chicken you want late at night. My, there’s nothing 
like fried chicken for a tired man. In America we’ve 
got fried chicken carriages in all places. After 
leaving your road-house or hiking it for twelve miles 
under the moon, you stop your automobile by a 
fried chicken carriage. There’s nothing to beat it. 
Fried chicken and moonlight.” He smacked his 
lips reminiscently. 

She was pleased with Mr. Svenk. He was 
amusing in his abrupt way and he twinkled when 
he talked. The more he talks the better, she 
thought, and then it won’t give this Maude-man a 
chance. She was sure she didn’t care for Carlo. 
He took it for granted that one liked him and he 
was quite intolerably handsome. It would be no 
good snubbing him, he wouldn’t notice it. He was 
almost impregnable. He sat on her left, a chilly 
shadow that she drew away from. An absurd idea 
crossed her mind that once that shadow enveloped 
you, you would be lost. A shadowy web of a 
cruel spider; something that watched and waited, 
sinister and impassionate. 

“ And moosic!” Svenk told her. “ My, but we’ve 
got some moosic.” He traced imaginary bars in 
the air with a long-nailed forefinger. “ America’s 
the home of moosic,” he said. “ Now, there’s a real 
sweet little tune, ‘ O Honey, when the silver moon is 
shining.’ ” 

“ Oh, but I know that!” cried Isabel. 

“ You do!” demanded Horace Svenk. “ You do!” 
Every one does. I know the man who made that 
sweet little tune.” 

Carlo, with a sidelong glance at Isabel, whispered, 


152 


RANSOM 


“ The tune’s better beneath the moonlight than 
fried chicken, eh, Mrs. Brockenholt?” 

And Isabel blushed painfully scarlet. She felt 
the heat of her cheeks suddenly. The spider had 
crept from his dusky web and peered at her. How 
did he know about her and Jimmy? Had he waited 
all this time through dinner till the opportunity 
arose for him to let her know in this vivid way that 
he knew everything, was always watching, waiting. 
But his mocking face showed no malice, only — 
knowledge. 

Carlo patted her forearm with the tip of a finger, 

“ And very nice too, Mrs. Brockenholt.” 

She moved her arm quickly away from him. 

“ If that man,” said Horace Svenk genially, “ is 
vexing you, Mrs. Brockenholt, why I’ll crack his 
ribs.” He shook a knowing head at the smiling 
Carlo. “ Now, that little tune,” he continued, 
“ that little tune, Mrs. Brockenholt, is published at 
fifty cents. My friend, who loves real moosic, made 
thirty thousand dollars over that song. There’s 
nothing like being a genuine artist. I’ve purchased 
two very fine paintings over here this visit. After 
freightage they will have cost me together forty 
thousand dollars. A picture ought to be good at that 
price.” 

“Where’d you get ’em and what are they?” 
asked Carlo, leaning forward, his fork in the air. 

“ Why, I suppose I’m entitled to say,” said Horace 
Svenk. “ I got these pictures at Montori’s, in Bond 
Street. One’s by Leighton, and the other’s a dear 
little thing my wife will just eat, by Orchardson. 
My wife’s just crazy over Orchardson, Mrs. Brock¬ 
enholt.” 


RANSOM 


153 


“ Oh, yes,” said Isabel. 

“ We’ve got an Orchardson gallery at home.” 

“Ah!” said Carlo. “They’ll depreciate in 
value.” 

“Depreciate!” cried Horace Svenk. “Depre¬ 
ciate, Carlo! I’m certain these beautiful pictures 
will not depreciate, sir. They’ll boom.” 

Carlo grinned. 

“You want Piccasso and Marisse. I’ve only one 
Piccasso.” 

“ Why, you’ve just wasted your money,” said 
Horace Svenk. “ You’ll find that eventually the 
general public will come back to the real heart-stuff 
of life. This phase for brutality will wear out. It’s 
sentiment we want. Don’t you agree?” 

“ Oh, yes,” answered the confused Isabel. This 
ardent appreciation for pictures was beyond her. 
Generally speaking a picture was a charming thing. 
Somehow it had never occurred to her to connect 
money with painting. A painter, she supposed, 
made a living as any one else did and with luck 
received due recompense. But in this case the 
recompense seemed to ignore the artist. Perhaps 
Mr. Svenk made a living this way? How then 
was he connected with Motor Transport? She’d 
heard he was. Did he have time for both or was 
it merely a hobby? It seemed, nevertheless, a 
strange method of appreciation. Neither he nor 
Mr. Maude had done anything towards construct¬ 
ing the pictures. And who fixed the values, any¬ 
way? The champagne was making her head ache. 

“Wait and see,” said Carlo, and emptied his 
glass. 

But later, when that intolerable and racking meal 


154 


RANSOM 


was over, and while Horace Svenk told James 
Brockenholt, “ Why, your wife’s a very intelligent 
woman, Mr. Brockenholt. She’s cute on art,” 
young Lang-Davies made his way over to Isabel. 

“ I haven’t had the chance before! You remem¬ 
ber me, Mrs. Brockenholt?” 

And suddenly Isabel realized that this tall young 
man with the freckled face was the boy she’d known 
ten years ago at Marlton. 

“ Len, how are you? How nice it is to see you 
again!” 

“ And you too, Isabel,” he said. “ I ought to 
have called on you. I’d heard, of course. But 
there’s so little time I find, nowadays.” 

“ What are you doing exactly, Len?” 

“ I’m in Fleet Street. I’m writing a book too, 
Isabel.” 

“ How lovely, and when’s it coming out?” 

He blushed beneath his freckles. 

“ It—it isn’t finished yet, and of course I haven’t 
shown it to a publisher.” 

“ But you’ll give me a copy when it does, Len? 
And you will come and see me, won’t you? Ring 
up.” 

Brockenholt was at her side then. He eyed 
Lang-Davies sharply. 

“ Jimmy, this is Mr. Lang-Davies.” 

The two men bowed. Was there between these 
two at that first meeting, faintly apparent in Brock- 
enholt’s dark face, in Lang-Davies’ sudden tighten¬ 
ing of his lips and self-conscious acknowledgment, 
some vague antagonism? Was Lang-Davies’ atti¬ 
tude towards his wife too frankly admiring, too 
crudely delighted, to be altogether pleasing to what 


RANSOM 


155 


Lang-Davies afterwards alluded to as “ the Lord 
thy God Brockenholt ”? To those who knew him 
well that narrowing of eyes, lifting of lip, bespoke 
contempt in the great man. His philosophy con¬ 
tained a chapter on the position of “ pups ” in the 
world and the treatment of such a species. And 
this was a friend of Isabel’s, was it? Very well, 
then, this friend should be but a friend of Mrs. 
Brockenholt. Isabel Luke was buried. Only Isabel 
Brockenholt lived, should live. Time enough for 
that, though. So Brockenholt said to his wife: 

“ Mrs. Proutopoli wants to speak to you. It’s 
important.” 

So with a smile Isabel followed her husband 
across the room, and as they threaded their way, 
he whispered: 

“ She’s been hit good and proper. Play it up, 
my dear.” 

Understanding little of his statement Isabel found 
herself wedged into a corner with her hostess. 

“ My dear” murmured Mrs. Proutopoli, “ for¬ 
give me disturbing your tete-a-tete. But I seem to 
have only said, ‘ How do you do?’ as yet.” 

She cocked her head on one side critically. 

“ What a lovely dress, Mrs. Brockenholt! Tell 
me ”— she lowered her voice —“ do you know where 
James bought those pearls for you?” 

“ I don’t, I’m afraid,” said Isabel. 

“ Never mind,” continued Mrs. Proutopoli. “ But 
I did so want to speak to you for a minute alone. 
I have a little scheme. Lady Wing and myself 
are arranging a Charity Ball in aid of the starving 
Armenians. It will be held here, though the date 
as yet is not fixed. Dear Timon had the ball and 


156 


RANSOM 


reception hall built specially for me. We can take 
a thousand guests, would you believe it? The Arme¬ 
nian Ambassador will come, of course, and — and 
we hope — Royalty. Such a project is worthy of 
support. I hope, Mrs. Brockenholt, that you will 
come and perhaps — you don’t mind my asking? 
Perhaps you would care to assist Lady Wing in 
her capacity of hostess?” 

For a moment Isabel was nonplussed. She, a 
lieutenant-hostess in a great barrack of a place 
like this, surrounded by an overwhelming crowd of 
these incomprehensible people! Was there no end 
to these terrors? How was she to know that the 
far-seeing Brockenholt had only two days previously 
executed a pleasant little transaction in the way of 
increasing Mrs. Proutopoli’s number of shares in 
Lingfields at a reduced and cunning rate? Not that 
such a transaction in any way savoured of a bargain. 
Certainly not, though, on the other hand, in such 
matters it was a foregone conclusion that there 
should be some semblance of give-and-take. Even 
so, who can blame James Brockenholt for making 
every preparation for the launching of his wife? 
Mrs. Proutopoli must find Isabel useful. Mrs. Prou- 
topoli would be a great help in advising and cap¬ 
turing that title. 

But remembering her husband’s whispered hint 
of two minutes ago, “ Play it up, my dear,” Isabel, 
sacrificing in that moment more than Brockenholt 
could ever know, replied, 

“ Oh, Mrs. Proutopoli, how kind of you! You 
know how delighted I should be to help.” 

And in such a manner the first step in the estab¬ 
lishment of Isabel Brockenholt was taken. 


RANSOM 


157 


Driving home in the car, she told Brockenholt 
all about it. He nodded once or twice before 
answering. Then his reply was not in words only. 
He took her gently in his arms and kissed her. 
Quite emphatically that thunderous gentleman was 
pleased and in his pleasure she found her reward 
a hundredfold. 

“ They’ll all be at your feet soon,” he whispered. 

But Isabel, comforted and happy beside him, 
looked up into his face, and stroking the rough 
sand-papery point of his chin, 

“ I don’t care what any one thinks,” she said, 
“ as long as you love me, Jimmy.” 

Far and obscure at the back of his mind Brock¬ 
enholt wondered if he was thinking that both state¬ 
ments were curiously enough inseparable from one 
another. 


CHAPTER VI 


The Cafe Martinque, which lies somewhere be¬ 
tween Shaftesbury Avenue and Coventry Street, 
has a reputation of its own. Here it is convention 
that friends are not necessarily to be recognized and 
that the art of eavesdropping may be a gentlemanly 
or rather businesslike action. To the Cafe Mar¬ 
tinque go many of those people who wish to talk 
business. Stockbrokers, journalists, small financiers, 
art-dealers, buyers and sellers come here regularly 
to argue through their modest meal over such things 
as prices and the making of bargains. A week 
after Mrs. Proutopoli’s small party, Mr. Carlo 
Maude might have been seen standing in the tiny 
vestibule of the Martinque, dabbing his lips with 
a lavender-coloured silk handkerchief and watching 
with a bemused eye each passing taxi. It is apparent 
then that Carlo was here on business. In due time, 
that is ten minutes late, Miss Sophie Wontner 
alighted from one of the taxis and greeted Carlo 
with a nod and a flick of her fingers. 

“ Upstairs or down?” she asked. 

“ Upstairs, it’s quieter,” said Mr. Maude, replac¬ 
ing the lavender handkerchief in his breast pocket, 
from which position a rather too apparent corner 
drooped against his blue coat. 

He chose a secluded table. 

“ What are you going to eat?” 

“ Anything,” said Miss Wontner. 

158 


RANSOM 


159 


He ordered it. 

“ We’d better have a cocktail,” remarked Miss 
Wontner. 

Said Carlo, meditatively spearing with the splin¬ 
ter provided the red ripe cherry floating in his drink: 

“ Well, Sophie, I don’t believe I’ve seen you 
since we were all down at Marlton.” 

Sophie nodded, 

“ Quite right, Carlo.” 

Occupied with lighting a cigarette, Miss Wont¬ 
ner still found it possible to watch Carlo over the 
vase of cornflowers in the centre of the table. He 
was still occupied in stabbing the cherry. 

“ And how’s things?” he asked. 

“ More or less as usual,” said Miss Wontner. If 
he’d got anything to say he could say it. She wasn’t 
going to commit herself. He’d got a rise out of her 
before — once; that night when she’d discovered 
Jimmy at Marlton making a fool of himself under 
that girl’s window. 

“ I see,” commented Carlo guardedly. “ More 
— or less, as usual.” 

“ And how are things with you, Carlo?” 

He sipped his drink, 

“ More or less unusual.” 

Their food being brought, they ate in silence for 
some time. 

“ I saw Brock the other night,” said Carlo be¬ 
tween mouthfuls. 

“ Oh, yes.” 

“ Pretty girl, his wife. Brainless — though.” 

“ Oh, yes?” 

“ White or red, Sophie?” 

“ Just as you like, Carlo, I really don’t mind.” 


160 


RANSOM 


“ Well, red then, eh? Waiter!” 

“ He’s doing well.” 

“ Who? Oh, Brock, is he?” 

“ Yes,” said Carlo, “ very well indeed.” 

Last time he’d made her angry and it had worked. 
He’d try again. “ Making thousands, I should say.” 

He broke bread daintily in his fingers. 

“ Lingfields are forging ahead, you know. Great 
man, Brock.” 

Miss Wontner sighed. In time, she supposed, 
he’d come to the point. In time. . . . Only wasn’t 
that what everything was like? Waiting and wait¬ 
ing and waiting. It was very tiring. It made her 
long for a quiet spell once more, free from worry. 
Some people were lucky, they never had to plot and 
plan; life was smooth and easy, just as it was for 
Isabel Brockenholt. What a little fool that girl 
was! Carlo was right with his epithet “ brainless.” 
Why should she have comfort and security when 
other people had to live by their wits all the time? 
Somehow it was grotesquely unfair. And it was 
terribly tiring. Marriage was a foolish game, but 
it meant security. It was a long wearying business 
facing the storm alone, with no one beside you to 
cheer you up sometimes, to provide the money, 
the safety. Carlo was mumbling on, “ Not the thing 
to do at all. I never had the chance. ...” 

“ What?” she asked sharply. 

“ I was saying,” said Carlo, “ that Brock treated 
you damn badly. I say it, Sophie, because I must. 
You know how always I’ve felt so strongly for you.” 

Two little scarlet spots of indignation glowed for 
a minute on Sophie’s cheeks, and as suddenly dis¬ 
appeared. 


RANSOM 


161 


“ I know that, Carlo. I appreciate it. But must 
we talk about these things?” 

He leant across the table, 

“ How can I help it, Sophie? It’s a thing I must 
talk about.” 

She shrugged her shoulders and with a pitiful little 
smile said: 

“ Poor old Carlo! I know what you’re think¬ 
ing. You’ve had to wait a long time, haven’t you? 
It’s funny, I think. We’re funny. I laugh at every¬ 
thing sometimes because everything seems so futile 
really. Jimmy and me and you. You’re the only 
one who’s really hard, Carlo; and that’s because 
you haven’t got it in you to care much about any¬ 
thing except yourself. What do you want of me?” 

“ I want you,” he answered, running the tip of 
his tongue over his lips. She rested her chin on her 
hands, regarding him shrewdly, seemingly attempt¬ 
ing to pierce that polished veneer that covered his 
personality. Then raising her eyes and gazing over 
his smooth shining hair, talking more to herself than 
to him, she said: 

“ Do you? There are heaps of ways of wanting 
people, Carlo. You’ve got to pay always. Oh, not 
only in that way. What a rotten life this is when 
you come to think about it, and how beastly we 
are. I do think though that it’s something to know 
how beastly you are. The whole show’s so utterly 
futile and wearisome.” 

She laughed abruptly. 

“ I’m sorry, Carlo dear. Indeed I am. I’m not 
often given to sentimentality. Just lately though 
— oh, damn it! What’s the proposition, Carlo?” 

He ordered coffee. 


162 


RANSOM 


“ You’re getting tired, eh, Sophie? You’d like 
a rest, eh?” 

How strangely accurate Carlo always was! He 
seemed to know just where to probe. Perhaps, she 
thought, it was because he watched so carefully; 
lying in wait like a smooth shiny snake, hidden, in 
ambush, waiting, watching always with cold eyes. 
Yes, she was tired, dull and empty. Before Jimmy 
had found that girl . . . Damn that girl, with 
her stupid obstinacy and silly untutored ways! 
Why should a phantom thing like her take every¬ 
thing away? 

“ Well?” she asked. 

“I’m ready to pay, Sophie.” 

“ You’re suggesting a bargain?” 

“ If you must put it like that.” 

“ Go on,” she said wearily. 

“ It’s like this,” he paused. “ More wine? It’s 
like this. You pride yourself on being honest — 
with yourself particularly, don’t you?” 

Right again! She nodded. 

“ So I’m going to be quite frank, Sophie. What 
I told you that night at Marlton was truth. The 
position is just this. You thought that Brock and 
you understood one another, that your relationship 
was based merely on friendliness and, shall I say, 
mutual convenience. You’ve found out, Sophie, 
old dear, that it hasn’t been very easy to cut your 
losses. You’re still sore, eh, Sophie?” 

She was immediately furious. With a man like 
this, you felt trapped, caught in a web of your own 
making, helpless. 

“ I’m not a rabbit,” she said, “ thrilled with the 
idea of vivisection.” 


RANSOM 


163 


He grinned at her. 

“ I’m going,” she said. “ You can find me a 
taxi.” 

He made no attempt to stop her, but tilting back 
in his chair, said softly: 

“ Ah, Sophie, don’t be offended. You must let 
me try and help you.” 

She was trembling, her lips quivering as she 
faced him. 

“ I do hate you sometimes,” she said in a smoth¬ 
ered voice. “ God, how I do hate you.” 

“ Sit down again,” he answered. “ Sit down and 
let’s just talk it over, Sophie dear. Do see how 
much I want to help.” 

She made a futile unhappy gesture with her tiny 
hands and sat down again, her eyes very bright and 
angry, her face set and drained of colour. She 
bit her underlip. He pulled his chair alongside hers 
and laid a hand on hers. She took no notice of 
him but stared miserably before her. 

“ Now, now, Sophie, it’s all right, my dear, but 
listen to me.” He took a deep breath. Things 
were going very well, but go carefully . . . care¬ 
fully. 

“ You’re a very sensible little thing, and I’ve got 
a little scheme. Brock’s not played straight with 
you, at all. It makes me very angry. Between us, 
Sophie, I never did think Brock was very straight 
with anybody. I’ll tell you he’s not been very 
straight with me. I owe him one or two,” he added 
gently, “ and so do you, Sophie.” 

She said nothing. 

“ Now listen to me, my dear. We’ll get even 
with Brock.” 


164 


RANSOM 


“ You mean that?” she asked. 

He nodded. 

“ Brock ought to be taught his lesson. He 
tramples over everybody. Will you listen to me 
now, Sophie, if I tell you how we can get our own 
back?” 

Listen! Yes, she’d listen indeed. She’d never 
forgive Jimmy for letting her care the tiniest bit 
for him. Illogically she felt she’d been cheated. 
She was miserable and very, very angry. Some one 
should pay for these latter weeks of pain. 

“ Go on, Carlo.” 

“ Brock’s made a fool of himself, Sophie, in 
marrying this little chit. I’m right, Sophie, when 
I say that if you want to, you can get him back.” 

“ Well?” 

“ Get him back, Sophie. You can do it. You’ll 
find this girl of his won’t be able to deal with the 
side of him you dealt with. And then-” 

“ Yes?” 

“ Well — then, if there should occur such a thing 
as — a — nasty little scandal. Brock’s got a lot of 
enemies — divorce proceedings perhaps — then you 
might, in future, call on me to settle any little bills 
and that sort of thing, eh?” 

Still she stared straight in front of her, silent. 

“ I might arrange an annuity, Sophie. There 
would be — haven! Brock deserves it. Are you 
going to let a little fool like that wife of his put 
you in your place? Are you?” 

And to Sophie, sitting there, came remembrance of 
that afternoon’s call, the insults of James Brocken- 
holt, the behaviour of that inadequate mistress of 
the house in Fulham Square. She stood up. 



RANSOM 


165 


“ Very well, Carlo. It’s a bargain. I’ll do it. 
It’s dirty, but we are dirty. It’ll be too damn funny 
for words!” 

“ Dear old Sophie,” murmured Mr. Maude. 
“ We’ll pull together, won’t we? Now let’s all 
cheer up. What about a matinee?” 

Later in a taxi driving to the theatre Miss Wont- 
ner gave Mr. Maude a peck of a kiss on his cheek. 

“ Old swindler,” she said. “ You are a rotten 
lot!” 

Mr. Maude beamed. 

“ That’s a matter of opinion,” he replied. “ Busi¬ 
ness is business. We’ll have a high old time eventu¬ 
ally. And you’ll be safe and sound, Sophie.” 

“ With you, Carlo?” 

“ You bet,” said Mr. Maude. “ I’ll start a little 
business for you right away. A little dance-club, 
eh?” 

But that evening talking to his newly acquired 
partner, Horace Stanhope Svenk, who had sunk 
many dollars into Motor Transport Limited, Mr. 
Maude said: 

“ She’ll do it.” 

“ She will?” asked Horace Svenk. “ She will? 
Gee, Mr. Maude, that’s smart.” 

“ That remains to be seen,” mused Mr. Maude. 
“ It’s like this, Svenk. Brockenholt is too sure 
of himself. The fact is, he doesn’t realize just 
what he is. I’ve known him a long time. There’re 
two Brockenholts, Svenk. I’ve only just realized 
that myself. One’s the side we all know. The other’s 
something he’d not admit to himself, the side that’s 
made him marry that little girl. Those two sides 
are going to clash, and that’s where we come in, 


166 


RANSOM 


eh, Svenk? When he finds Sophie again he’ll hate 
that little girl, I’ll be bound. And he is going to 
find Sophie, if I know anything about it. Every one 
knows what she is, eh, Svenk?” He examined his 
nails. “ A nice nasty scandal, with the co-respondent 
a great — er — personal friend of Lingfields’ rival, 
your humble servant, Carlo Maude, might make the 
public shy of putting their hard-earned cash with 
Mr. James Brockenholt. We can work the Press, 
Svenk.” 

“ My,” said Horace Svenk. “ But I can see the 
headlines. ‘ Chief of Lingfields under influence of 
Rival’s Sweetheart.’ 4 Deserted Childwife!’ That 
destroys confidence.” 

“ You bet,” agreed Mr. Maude. 


CHAPTER VII 


That Mr. Carlo Maude was not incorrect in his 
surmisings may be seen by the conversation Isabel 
and her husband made one afternoon some few 
weeks later as they sat side by side on the slope of a 
meadow some forty miles from the house in Ful¬ 
ham Square. The car was drawn up at the side of 
the road below them. The Sussex downs tumbled 
away beneath, rising eventually to a great hunched 
hill, dark in the distance, a glimmer of the sea like 
a sword shining beyond one shoulder of the high 
grassland. It had been at Isabel's request that 
they had driven here. Preparations for the Charity 
Ball had been riotous for the last week. Mrs. 
Proutopoli had been almost continually on the tele¬ 
phone, Lady Wing had nearly quarrelled with two 
of the other hostesses. For Isabel, life had been 
red-hot and bewildering. Brockenholt, too, had 
been very busy. Lingfields were working at full 
pressure. The Manchester difficulty with the men 
had been settled but there was still an atmosphere 
of uneasiness in the district. The great fight with 
Motor Transport was developing. Shortly the time 
would come for Brockenholt to take Mrs. Prouto- 
poli’s advice. Timon had thoughtlessly died just 
when he had decided that the acquisition of a 
title was not a thing to be sneezed at. There¬ 
fore Mrs. Proutopoli knew the ropes. It remained 
for the ball to be a success. It had cost, Brocken- 
167 


168 


RANSOM 


holt thought ruefully, quite a bit already. Never¬ 
theless it was eminently worth while, a decidedly 
good move in this game of wits and wealth. Now 
for this afternoon he and his wife were freed from 
the anxieties involved and could take a short respite. 
Moreover, he felt a long quiet talk would be bene¬ 
ficial. He could not realize then, as afterwards, 
that during this conversation both of them struggled 
in vain to reconcile their conflicting emotions. That 
day in his room at Marlton old “ Eagle,” that very 
wise old man, had been right: Brockenholt had a 
“ lot to lose.” Now, glancing at Isabel, lying on 
her side, her eyes fixed on the far-off sparkle of the 
sea, he asked her: 

“ Tired, my dear?” 

She smiled bravely back at him. 

“ Yes, I am rather, Jim.” 

Divining her thoughts, afraid to acknowledge that 
his guessing might be near the truth, but against his 
will (that other self of him) he questioned: 

“ Like to stay here for always?” 

She paused perceptibly before answering, and 
then she fenced. 

“ Would you?” 

The question disturbed him. It was irritating to 
be foiled and made to search yourself. He replied 
guardedly: 

“ In some ways. Perhaps.” 

She sat up drawing her legs beneath her. Then: 

“ You love me as much as ever, Jim?” 

He frowned. 

“ Of course I do. Why?” 

“ I wondered.” 

He rolled nearer to her and took one of her 


RANSOM 


169 


hands in his. She was a constant delight to him — 
in some ways. She was so fair and beautiful and 
sweet, so eager to please and to do his bidding. This 
“ tiredness ” of hers at the moment nearly awakened 
remorse in that he had been the indirect cause of 
it. She was so small a thing compared to him, but 
how strong those bonds that held him to her! 

“ Why do you wonder?” Something within him¬ 
self told him that this probing into their feelings 
was dangerous, yet, fascinated, he felt he must 
discover the hidden spring. 

“ You seem different sometimes, Jimmy darling.” 

“ Different?” 

“ M’m.” 

As far as he knew he’d been “ different ” at no 
time. Why, therefore, this statement of hers? He 
must find out now, inclination or disinclination. 

He shook her hand gently. 

“ Tell me.” 

“ It’s hard to explain. You’re different now ” 

He laughed. 

“ Bless your heart! How?” 

“ I don’t quite know. It’s sort of funny. Down 
here now, for instance, you’re like you were at 
Marlton. But up there ”— he noticed she didn’t 
use the phrase “ at home ”—“ up there in London 
it’s another you.” 

“ Well,” he replied slowly, “ that’s not so very 
curious, is it? People can’t always be the same.” 
The inadequacy of that remark immediately struck 
him. He must make this quite clear. “ I mean 
to say, one reacts to environment and to diverse 
people.” 

“ It isn’t that.” She shook her head. “ It’s 


170 


RANSOM 


deeper than that, somehow. I think, Jimmy, I like 
you best like this. I’m not so frightened of you.” 

He chuckled. 

“ Silly baby! I don’t frighten you.” 

Her face was very serious like a puzzled child 
when she replied: 

“No! Not you frightening me, Jim. But some 
part of you does! It’s the part that’s not really 
you. The Marlton part is you. This other side 
is-” 

“ Well?” 

“ Not so nice.” 

“ What a little critic you are!” He laughed again 
to shake her out of the mood, but she only patted 
his hand that lay on her knee and gazed steadily 
towards the dancing sparks on the distant sea. 

“ Will you tell me something, Jim dear?” 

“ I won’t promise.” 

“ Why did you marry me?” 

He was suddenly shocked. The absurdity of the 
question! What was the matter with the girl? 

“ My dear,” he answered. “ What next?” 

She turned troubled eyes to him. 

“ Oh, Jim, don’t be angry!” 

“ I’m not angry.” 

“ I knew you would be, but I had to ask.” 

The colour rose darkly in his cheeks. This was 
getting idiotic. 

“ I tell you,” he said. “ I am not angry. Natur¬ 
ally enough, I’m wondering what you’re driving at.” 

Her mouth trembled. 

“ I’m just being honest, Jim. Don’t read more 
into it than is there!” 

She looked down at him wistfully with a strange 



RANSOM 


171 


expression. “ Like an old woman/’ he thought. It 
was a look he’d never seen in her eyes before, and 
it surprised him as the unexpected words or knowing 
look of a child sometimes startles the observer. He 
realized for the first time that this young wife of 
his was in fact a separate, almost unknown, person; 
that his dominant personality in some way failed 
completely to envelop both of them and that the 
mere fact of marriage alone could not entirely 
submerge her individuality. To man that marries 
woman comes in time this realization, when the 
first passionate phase is ending and the purely 
physical, if only by repetition, loses its primal thrill. 
Is it not then that the mounting love seeks free¬ 
dom from the toils; when the spirit, tangled amidst 
the dark roots of physical being, seeks to rise up¬ 
wards through the binding earth to sunlight and a 
serener life, a green small plant of love thrusting 
out of the soil, striving to grow till its topmost 
branches reach to entangle the very sun itself? 
Now with Isabel, ripening, the roots of her love 
fast set in that dear soil, becoming aware of that 
maturing and the desires it brought, struggling 
desperately to express those as yet half-understood 
yearnings, Brockenholt found himself at a loss. 
He looked upon her with new eyes, seeing with 
amazement that she had become woman, fearing 
almost this deeper fuller prompting of her spirit, 
and for the first time in his life he was faced with a 
problem beyond his comprehension. For in this 
blossoming of love are, as with all birth, many 
pains. By her words, showing very clearly to him 
that she too within herself keep secret counsel apart 
from him; by that old wise expression of her eyes, 


172 


RANSOM 


he knew her for a stranger: some one that he as 
yet had not captured for himself, a jewel indeed, 
but a jewel with a living destiny of its own. But 
in love, whose name is legion, but yet one, when 
this seed of spirit breaks its shell to expand and 
push out delicate tendrils, when this love, as no 
other thing can, bears of its own accord fresh birth 
of itself, lies the ever-recurring danger at each 
rebirth of quick susceptible death. Then very 
humbly, with eagerness to comprehend, should 
Brockenholt have sat at the feet of this sweet Isabel, 
and tried to help her discover the concrete desires 
of her soul’s great unfathomed wish, but being him¬ 
self a dark man full of impatience and obstinate 
knowledges, he felt ashamed to think a matter such 
as this should be beyond his sphere of understand¬ 
ing. The girl was being wilful and irritating, so 
he said: 

“ What is it you want to say?” and said the 
words in such a manner that she shook her head 
helplessly, in a terror that she might tell in answer 
too much or too little. But summoning her courage 
she answered: 

“ I only wanted to know, Jim, to get things a 

hit plpur ^ 

“ Well, isn’t it all clear?” 

“ Not exactly. You see, Jim darling, I want to 
know what you want me to do, really. It seems 
that my chief function is to run your big house 
and make a big splash. But you can’t have mar¬ 
ried poor little me for that only, because I’m so 
dreadfully stupid at these things. I don’t see how 
we can do both.” 

“ Both?” 


RANSOM 


173 


“ Yes, dear Jim. Both. Do all that and — 

and-” 

“ Well.” ' 

“ Oh, my dear,” she said, “ one wants children, 
doesn’t one?” 

So that was what she was after, was it? Well, 
why couldn’t she say so straight out without all 
this dilly-dallying? Anyway, there was time enough 
for that. At the present there was too much to do, 
and she couldn’t be laid up three-quarters of a 
year when things were beginning to move. Another 
thought came to him, that, given children, this love 
of hers would be divided, and where indeed would 
he be? Had he married this child for her youth, 
a fountain to refresh him, in order to allow her to 
give that youth to a somebody else, another child 
who would be depriving him of that precious pos¬ 
session? 

“ Doesn’t one — you, Jim?” he heard her saying. 

“ Of course I do, my dear girl, but not yet.” 

Even as he spoke he wondered if his statement 
was but a half-truth. Yes, a certain part of him 
did want children, would like to take her away from 
the business of the present life and give her these 
things. But the beast in him, that creature in half¬ 
possession who hungered for power and great wealth 
and things not of the spirit, things to be seen and 
handled, also reminded him of its desires. And at 
that moment he lost for ever his opportunity. 

“ Oh, come on,” he said, “ it’s getting chilly, 
we’ll be getting back.” 

As they stepped into the car Isabel paused, look¬ 
ing back to the green meadow where they had sat, 
seeing through a mist of tears a green grass patch 



174 


RANSOM 


amid the wood and hills that was too like a burial- 
green for small bodies, a cemetery for small bitterly 
relinquished hopes. 

“ Jump in, my dear,” said her husband. 

In silence they drove back to the house in Fulham 
Square. 


CHAPTER VIII 


From about this date, the editors of gossip col¬ 
umns in the daily and (particularly) the weekly 
Press discovered a new and remarkably prolific 
source of information. Notes and “ short pars ” were 
received from a gentleman who styled himself Mr. 
Save Savour. Two autobiographical novels by his 
pen, “ Personally Speaking ” and “ A ’Varsity Ego¬ 
ist,” had already been published. Though the art, 
indeed an art it is, of writing “ pars ” is not one too 
commonly pursued by men of such aesthetic tenden¬ 
cies, the Press found Mr. Savour’s gossip notes very 
readable and extremely useful. Naturally enough, 
the paragraphs, as usual, were unsigned, yet on 
the other hand strangely enough they dealt almost 
invariably with the same prominent people, who 
were: James Brockenholt, “ the beautiful Mrs. 
Brockenholt,” Mr. Carlo Maude, and that well- 
known and rather shocking young lady, Miss Sophie 
Wontner. A certain maliciousness gave piquancy to 
Mr. Savour’s comments. Two or three of them are 
worthy of perusal. 

In the Illustrated Weekly Looker-on appeared a 
photo of James Brockenholt and Mrs. James Brock¬ 
enholt. Beneath the caption ran: 

“ A widely-known magnate and his wife. 

“ Mr. James Brockenholt, as is well known, is 
the man at the wheel of Lingfields, the rapidly 
growing motor transport service whose estimable 
175 


176 


RANSOM 


endeavour to make motor transport, on an organ* 
ized and large scale, the equivalent of the railways 
is becoming recognized as a national asset. It is 
universally recognized that Mr. Brockenholt is one 
of the coming Big Men in Modern Commerce.” 

In another issue of the same paper appeared a 
quarto-size portrait of Miss Wontner. 

Readers were informed that “ this wickedly clever 
little dancer, Miss Sophie Wontner, is now giving a 
series of Eurasian Tone-dances at the Essex Gallery 
Cabaret, which, we are led to believe, is partly 
financed by that brilliant man of parts, Mr. C. 
Maude. Mr. Maude is also known as a clever 
business man. In our portrait Miss Wontner, 
delightfully if dangerously clad in an Asian robe 
of pearls and brilliants, is executing the first move¬ 
ment of the Babu’s Impulse. It is needless to add 
that Miss Wontner’s clever dances are satirical in 
theme.” 

A harmlessly vicious weekly paper asked: “ If a 
certain recently married would-be millionaire was 
in any way irritated by a rival financier’s interest in 
a little lady formerly of his acquaintance? And if 
little ladies could influence men of commerce?” 

Indeed, little by little, by dint of repetition the 
general public, more especially the higher levels, 
came to realize that James Brockenholt was a very 
great man, that the lady, his wife, was very young 
but very beautiful, that the notorious Sophie Wont¬ 
ner had joined forces with Carlo Maude. This 
propaganda was extremely well done, and Mr. Save 
Savour received suitable recompense for his services 
from — Mr. Carlo Maude and Horace Stanhope 


RANSOM 


177 


Svenk, the co-directors of Motor Transport Limited. 
But this latter fact was unknown. 

In due course the Charity Ball organized by 
Mrs. Proutopoli and Lady Wing was given pub¬ 
licity, and it became known that Royalty in the 
person of a Russian Prince would honour the 
occasion. 

Now the night of the ball had arrived. All that 
day Isabel had been in a state of feverish anxiety 
and excitement. Realizing now the part to be played 
as dictated by that God-like, not-to-be-refused hus¬ 
band of hers, she had made every effort to prepare 
herself. 

At dinner Brockenholt put her, as it were, through 
her paces, for the last time. When she was dressing 
he looked in now and again, casting a critical eye 
over her apparel. Lisette’s fingers were busy for 
a long hour. As they stepped into the car, he told 
Isabel: 

“ This show’s going to be fine practice for you. 
I’d like you to keep an eye open for this Prince 
Vladimir fellow. It’s the sort of connection that 
suits Lingfields. He’s got money. Not nervous, are 
you?” 

“ A little bit, Jimmy, but nothing really.” 

“ That’s a good girl.” 

But she was nervous; more so because she felt 
that her husband as well was a little on edge. 
Watching the street lights flash by, catching sight 
of her pale reflection in the glass attached to the 
side of the saloon, she experienced a desire to snatch 
the diamonds from her neck, gather her skirts! 
around her knees and, opening the door as the car 
slowed down at the traffic blocks, to jump out and 


178 


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escape among the passers-by. But she deemed that 
impulse unworthy in that Jimmy wanted her to 
be like this, Jimmy whom she loved till she was 
one ache of love for him, who had given everything 
to her, whom she wanted to please and win praise 
from. Moreover, she was not feeling very well. 
Somehow she seemed to have taken very little exer¬ 
cise these last months. Perhaps after tonight’s 
performance there would be a period for rest. Life 
had been such a rush that there had seemed no time 
at all to think over important things for her and 
Jimmy; not affairs like this, which she couldn’t 
help feeling were not very real, and were more like 
the fantastic kaleidoscopic impressions of an eternal 
nightmare. Almost unreasonably she felt that the 
rarefied atmosphere of her present mode of existence 
was stifling her; the whole world seemed central- 
heated and the very air artificially disinfected. This 
role of behaving as a grown-up married woman was 
becoming irksome. At Marlton, walking over the 
downs with the lover Brockenholt talking gay non¬ 
sense and only being serious when he bent to kiss 
her, she had been herself. Now when she skipped 
about the place the sedate reproach of the husband 
Brockenholt’s regard made her feel on such occasions 
self-conscious and chilled. At this hour, every one 
in Marlton was just about to go to bed: Daddy 
would be scratching the tobacco ash out of his pipe, 
snuffling the fumes out of his nose, while Mum, her 
feet propped on a stool, read an out-of-date novel, 
and probably at this moment was carefully bending 
down a corner to mark the place for the next night’s 
inevitable routine; lights would be fading suddenly 
out in bedroom windows; the sound of footsteps 


RANSOM 


179 


would be clattering only seldom down the cobbled 
road; somewhere very far away a dog would be 
barking, and out on the downs the climbing moon 
would crown Barbary and the Hackpen Hill with a 
rim of silver. . . . The car slowed down, stopped. 
A confused blaze of lights, a crowd on the pave¬ 
ment, a strip of red carpet, above a striped awning 
with scalloped edges. 

“ Here we are!” said Brockenholt. 

The starving Armenians should have been for¬ 
ever grateful to Mrs. Proutopoli and Lady Wing 
for organizing the Charity Ball. Much “ good big 
money ” was collected to assuage their hunger- 
pangs. Prince Vladimir arrived in course of time, 
being as Russian as possible and twitching his thick 
curling eyebrows in aristocratic disdain. JTe Arme¬ 
nian Ambassador, his wife, and two daughters, 
were present: semi-millionaires rubbed shoulders 
with theatrical celebrities. Mr. Save Savour talked 
about himself, Carlo Maude nodded cheerfully to 
people he didn’t know, the ball was a great success. 
Yet amongst this so wealthy, so very smart immac¬ 
ulate concourse, did there step gingerly, rather 
horrified, certainly bewildered, two or three or more 
ghosts of former tenants? Surely it was enough to 
cause them traditionally to turn in their graves, 
and turning to awake, and awakening steal out of 
their confining tombs and make their way to this 
one-time home of theirs in Portman Square, to find 
out what all the noise and hubble-bubble was about, 
and if it might not be Gabriel summoning all men 
and some women together for the last grim tri¬ 
bunal? Yet, maybe, some small reward for their 
disturbed slumbers might have been given in a 


180 


RANSOM 


glimpse of a young girl, discernible from time to 
time. Who should not say if some wise old ghost, 
ruffles a little mouldy, satins a little creased, hose 
wrinkled, followed this living graciousness from 
room to room, snuffing ghost-snuff from a phantom 
hand, and experienced again an old forgotten long¬ 
ing to take those white fingers beneath his arm and 
say, “ My dear! this is no place for us” Lead¬ 
ing Isabel to some quiet and solemn refuge where 
he could question her. . . . “ And they like this, 
my lady. And you? It is very different.” Others 
of his kind may have joined him, feeling once more 
a live thing’s feelings, knowing how impossible it 
was for them to speak their secrets, realizing that 
the barrier of years and empty death were bridged 
by that sentiment, “ No place for us!” And when 
that wilful thunderous man at her side edged way 
through the crowd to force an introduction, when 
a black, white-cuffed arm encircled that waist and 
incautious and insolent fingers touched for a moment, 
almost by mistake, the bare flesh of that half- 
exposed back, did the ghostly escorts, with one 
accord, start forward to intercede, to protect, only 
to realize how futile, unseen, and vain their unfelt 
fingers were? But of all that concourse, one woman 
only would they have attended. 

Young Lang-Davies, present in a more or less 
official capacity, leaning against one of the Corin¬ 
thian pilasters of the ball-room, just where a door 
opened on to a secretive little hall with discreet 
nooks, smoked a cigarette. The slithering of feet, 
the roar of conversation, the swing and drop and 
lift of the band’s syncopated rhythm, were a far-off 
drumming in his ears like the unheeded grumbling 


RANSOM 


181 


of the surf on a near-by shore. The faces swaying 
past him seemed all exactly the same: no gown 
appeared more gorgeous, more striking than another, 
for all the gowns were gorgeous and striking, and 
relativity breeds contempt. “ A type of snobbish¬ 
ness on my part,” he told himself; “ but, by God, 
what a roomful of cads!” 

Once or twice he had seen Isabel, noticed Brock- 
enholt like a Satanic guardian-angel hovering in 
her vicinity, a dark influence behind her prompting 
her in her part, watching the effect her indispu¬ 
table beauty made on other people. Without effort, 
he had seen how Brockenholt had gathered about 
her “ the right people,” and how genuinely respect¬ 
ing her loveliness, instinctively fearing her husband, 
“ the right people ” had responded to her shy ad¬ 
vances. Like a guardian-angel too, Lang-Davies 
had followed her at a safe distance feeling certain 
that she hated this futility, that she was in a state 
of high nervous tension, that she wanted to go home 
— go to real home! Prince Vladimir of royal blood 
—“ too bloody royal ” Carlo had declared when the 
noble Russian had turned his back on him — had 
been, Lang-Davies knew, the objective of Brocken- 
holt’s manoeuvres. Several times Isabel had been 
hustled away when the Prince’s tall figure had 
risen like a pinnacle over the range of heads. 
“ Obvious,” this freckled young man had thought, 
“ obvious and typical.” But at last the introduc¬ 
tion had been arranged. The too-apparent look 
of pleasure in Brockenholt’s face had been gall¬ 
ing. Now, leaning against the wall, in this back¬ 
water Lang-Davies searched the crowd for Isabel, 
wondering if she too was as bored as he was, wait- 


182 


RANSOM 


ing for a chance to speak to her. Then suddenly 
she was coming towards him, and even as he pre¬ 
pared to greet her, he realized that she was not 
alone. By her side, rather flushed, well-supped, 
walked Mr. Carlo Maude. They almost touched 
him as they passed through the doorway to find a 
seat in the little dark hall. He noticed how Isabel 
paused at the threshold and how the worthy Carlo 
urged her forward with a touch on her arm; and 
how she withdrew that slender arm quickly, wincing 
from those hot, dead white fingers with the line of 
black hair down their length. A great desire to 
seize Mr. Maude by the coat collar and kick him 
severely came over the young man. Physical vio¬ 
lence would be the only thing that Carlo —“ that 
greaser ”— would understand. But by reason of 
civilization, which prevents estimable young men 
from kicking less estimable and predatory older 
men in public places, such a thing might not be. 
On the other hand, though eavesdropping was re¬ 
pugnant to him, Lang-Davies stayed where he was, 
within half-a-dozen paces of Isabel and Mr. Maude, 
waiting in case . . . 

And as he stood there James Brockenholt, with 
Prince Vladimir, took up a position at the other 
side of the door. There was no doubt that Brocken¬ 
holt knew where his wife was and who she was 
with. That in itself was quite clear, yet as he 
talked Brockenholt cast anxious glances into the 
secluded nook. Indeed, that man of schemes was 
annoyed. It was just like Carlo to take Isabel off 
when the Prince was searching for her. As if it 
hadn’t taken half the confounded evening to get 
the Prince to notice her, and if James Brockenholt 


RANSOM 


183 


knew anything about it, this noble gentleman should 
find Mrs. Brockenholt to be the loveliest woman 
present and should before long be at her feet. 
The Prince’s susceptibility for English ladies was 
well known. Very well, then, Brockenholt had 
decided, Isabel should make a pretty bait, and this 
roomful of outsiders should realize that this young 
wife of his could knock ’em all silly. If he could 
keep the Russian here for a few minutes longer 
Isabel would emerge. And the Prince had not as 
yet taken supper. . . . 

But of the incident that followed there were, 
besides the four people involved, but two other wit¬ 
nesses, one was Leonard Lang-Davies and the other 
was — Mr. Save Savour. Was it because of this 
latter gentleman’s presence that in the morrow’s 
account of the ball an “ amusing incident ” was 
recorded? 

As the band stopped, there came from that dark 
corner a little cry half of anger, half of terror. At 
the same moment Brockenholt edged the Prince 
towards the doorway. But as that regal personage 
entered to request Mrs. James Brockenholt’s com¬ 
pany and a dance, a thing engineered with much 
tact and subtlety by her husband, the lady herself, 
her back greeting him, facing the unchastened Mr. 
Maude, stepped suddenly back with another excla¬ 
mation of disgust, and struck the instep of Royalty 
a penetrating jab with the razor edge of a high heel. 
Royalty swore in Russian: heels upon an instep 
covered only with silk sock and the thinnest of 
patent leather can be excruciatingly painful. Roy¬ 
alty, forgetting itself, hopped. Maude, with a grunt, 
rose from his corner, Mr. Save Savour smiled and 


184 


RANSOM 


looked away, but Isabel, trembling and with tears 
in her eyes, all confusion and shame, could only 
gasp: 

“ Oh! I beg your pardon. I am so sorry. I 
am so dreadfully sorry!” 

Royalty bowed and, gingerly putting foot to 
ground, murmured: 

“ Madame’s privilege entirely.” And, with a 
charming smile — retired with dignity! 

So much then for the plots of mice and supermen! 

Carlo, like the Arabs, silently stole away. Mr. 
Savour, meditating, followed. 

The little hall was deserted in an instant save 
for Isabel, dazed and terrified, facing her husband, 
whose great clenched hands and blazing eyes tokened 
the wrath and disappointment that he for the 
moment was incapable of expressing by word of 
mouth. But when at length words came, Lang- 
Davies, frozen to his post of vantage, overheard a 
deep voice say brutally cold and measured: 

“ What in the name of God do you think you’re 
doing?” 

“Jim!”—what an agony of fear and shame in 
that spoken name — like a call for pity—“Jim! 
that horrible man tried to — to kiss me.” 

“ Who?” 

“ Mr.— Mr. Maude.” 

“ Well?” 

“ That’s how it happened, Jim. I couldn’t help 
it.” 

And then again that hateful voice: 

“ Well, what the hell does that matter?” 

“ But Jimmy darling-” 

“ Don’t shout! I know. I repeat, what the hell 



RANSOM 


185 


does that matter compared with what you’ve done?” 

Silence then except for a queer, deep, stifled gasp¬ 
ing, the sound of tears. 

“ Stop that noise, for God’s sake. Don’t we look 
fools enough as it is? We’d better get back. Get 
your things. What? I don’t know what excuse 
you can make, and I’m damned if I care!” 

And then Lang-Davies fled, almost running from 
the emptying ball-room, collecting his hat and coat 
with a frenzy that startled the passive footman, 
clattering down the steps of Mrs. Proutopoli’s man¬ 
sion, running away from the temptation to do, this 
time, murder only, to dig fingers into James Brock- 
enholt’s massive throat and squeeze the life out 
of him; walking rapidly away anywhere from that 
museum of a house, trying to tire himself till the 
echo of that cry of pain “Jim!” and the dreadful 
noise of that uncouth and pitiful sobbing should 
sound no more, haunting him who had, to his mind, 
seen an angel smirched, an angel bruised and 
whipped. 









m 

INTERLUDE 

“ Narrow is the gate that leadeth . 


. unto life.” 













CHAPTER I 


Autumn returning; the leaves of the beech tree 
opposite the house in Fulham Square twice red¬ 
dened, glorified for winter, since Mrs. Proutopoli’s 
dance at Portman Square . . . two autumns and 
now the season’s pageantry again. The old tree 
waits for sleep, the leaves shake. Everywhere there 
is the murmur of a late business, a last preparation 
for the dark months. Petals of flowers are rain- 
sodden, scattered on the grass, dissolving in death, 
completing the ever-recurring inevitable cycle of the 
year. The soot on topmost branches is two years’ 
thicker. The paint on the Doric columns fainter by 
two years’ measure of grime. Before the seven 
steps, twenty-five yards on either hand, lies a three- 
inch depth of tan. Silence, autumn-misty over the 
garden, silence and suspense within the house . . . 
sleep and rebirth, life leaving, life quickening. . . . 

There is a darkened room within the house, a 
room on the third floor with a window open to the 
Square so the highest branches of the beech tree 
can watch what happens in there. There is a 
coming and going, a sweet sour smell of ether, 
a professional look about a uniformed woman, a 
white-coated man, a scrupulous efficient look about 
the bed. On the bed, white and drowsy with pain, 
the mistress of the house . . . rustling of branches, 
clinking of instruments . . . life leaving, life quick¬ 
ening. 

So long had she been down in this pool of uncon¬ 
sciousness that fantasy and fact seemed one. She 
189 


190 


RANSOM 


was very ill — she must grasp that fact before she 
sank again. If she seized a fact when she was near 
the surface of consciousness, somehow she seemed 
able to take it down with her to the depths, and at 
each recurrent awakening it was at hand, something 
almost concrete that helped her to re-discover her¬ 
self normally. The idea was born that she must 
collect these facts to use as weapons against the 
phantoms that pursued her when the delirium 
throbbed through her once more. Then the facts 
seemed steps of a ladder by which, of her own voli¬ 
tion, she could rise out of the shadowy corridors of 
her benumbed mind. Always was this fear that 
she would get lost and never find a way back up to 
daylight from these stupendous limitless depths of 
imagination. Truth was, suspended between obliv¬ 
ion and normality, she rose and fell in this fathom¬ 
less pond like a fisherman’s bait, raised and lowered 
at some other decree than her own. Now actual 
pain was a thing relatively small beside her agony 
of mind. Occasionally it swept up through her 
in great heaving spasms when the chloroform shook 
clear. She almost welcomed its advent as some¬ 
thing comprehensible upon which her brain could 
fasten, driving those other thoughts and fantasies 
from her. Something beyond this illness was 
troubling her, something she couldn’t remember or 
grapple with. That loss of memory terrified her with 
its sense of overwhelming omnipotence. There was 
a name she could call upon which would assist her 
in this blind struggle if she could only remember it. 

“ Jim,” she cried. 

A voice in her ear, trying to comfort, a soft voice. 
Was it real? 


RANSOM 


191 


“ All right, dearie. Better soon!” 

Whose voice was that? Then a quick vision of 
a woman’s face near her, a white cap, two eyes 
looking down, now all disappearing except those 
pin-pricks of eyes, receding, advancing — a wave of 
agony; a pad close against her mouth and nose 
. . . down, down. 

“ All right, nurse.” 

She wanted to cry out to them to stop, to leave 
her alone. She wasn’t “ under ” yet. “ Not yet,” 
she tried to call, but that name tricked on to her 
lips by her subconscious agony, echoed in the 
room — 

“ Jim!” 

Now the nightmares again. There was great 
height above her, great depths beneath, all around 
an intolerable space. She was floating slowly down, 
all things invisible, but all things sensible. Then the 
dream quickened. She was standing on a narrow 
ridge, immeasurably high, on either side a cloudy 
obscurity concealed the abyss. Before her the ridge, 
a razor-like path, ran straightly upwards to where 
a peak burnt dazzling white in a strong radiance. 
Between that welcome light and herself other clouds 
veiled the path. She was walking towards the 
hill-top, toiling painfully, her limbs heavy. She 
knew she must get there. She knew that achieve¬ 
ment to be vastly important. When she was there, 
she would be able to speak, and her words would be 
listened to. The thing she had to say must be said. 
Darkness closed around her, gusts snatched; sway¬ 
ing against destruction she struggled on. She was 
in the middle-mist. Monsters of shadow and cloud 
rose up, sweeping alongside, brushing past her. 


192 


RANSOM 


Realization of unutterable depth came to her. The 
tip of the peak, a white-hot sugar cone, was visible 
before, nearer. Only a little longer, she thought, 
and I shall be through this obstruction. But on the 
thought the darkness in front became opaque, woolly 
and impregnable. Then she remembered it had 
always been like this; always had she got so far 
but only to give up at the bitter last. Agony at the 
realization was acute. Once on the peak she would 
be able to speak. That accomplished, everything in 
the future would be all right. Something was 
between her and that height. If she could only 
call, but the syllables of some mystic word were 
forgotten! Somebody was ahead in the sunshine, 
somebody she wanted desperately, somebody she 
would never reach. She struggled, slipped and fell. 
The mountain peak toppled, wheeled — darkness 
again and a terrible wrenching feeling inside her. 
She opened her eyes . . . bars in front of her, 
wooden forbidding bars, another obstruction. She 
was so exhausted with her climb that she could 
not move. It almost seemed as if she was tied 
down, yielding to the arms of that all-encircling 
darkness. Bars in front, cruel and forbidding — 
“ caged.” I’ll keep quiet, she thought, till I’m more 
accustomed to this new terror. I’m in a cage. A 
prisoner. . . . 

By a table near the window the doctor, washing 
his hands in a basin, looked over his shoulder. 

“ That’ll be all right, nurse.” 

“ Yes, doctor.” 

By another basin the nurse, busy washing not 
her hands but something else. Clever, careful 
hands, busy, trained, cunning hands. . . . 


RANSOM 


193 


Still in prison! Wooden bars still there! Who 
had put her there? Why? Ah! now she knew. 
Jim had put her there, because he didn’t trust her. 
She moaned. She was too weak to call out and ask 
him to let her go. Ah! the terrible anguish of 
that. Jim to put her there, because he imagined 
she might run away. If he’d only come and speak 
to her, she would tell him how wrong it was to put 
her in a cage like this, because she’d never leave 
him, would always wait beside him in case a time 
should come when he should want her. Even now 
she’d stay always, always because she loved him so, 
though it had been hard sometimes, and he’d never 
known, would never know, the secret tears she’d 
shed. Dear Jim, she pleaded, let me out, let me 
out. Don’t you know I love you still? Ah! she 
remembered now why Jim had found reason to put 
her in a cage and make her a prisoner. He was 
frightened she knew too much. She must go through 
in her mind all those things that had happened to 
make Jim feel like this. Then she would call for him 
and argue and ask him to release her from prison. 
How far must she go back? Her mind cleared. 
Yes, that dreadful night a long, long time ago. 
There had been a dance at somebody’s house, a 
big dance, and a terrible accident. . . . Memory 
returned with agonizing sharpness. She could 
hardly bear to think of that night. Now she remem¬ 
bered only too well! She had failed him, and on 
the return home he had said nothing, letting her 
go to sleep on the cold far side of the bed unkissed 
for the night, sobbing herself softly to sleep. . . . 
He’d never given her opportunity to apologize. 

Yes, that had been the beginning. She must 


194 


RANSOM 


connect that event with the present, but there were 
gaps in the narrative. If she kept on thinking, she 
hoped some other thing would return. Words 
floating to her. ... “ You’ll have to learn, that’s 

all.” That was a link surely? “ You’ll have to 

learn . . . learn!” Now- 

She was in the drawing room, waiting for Jimmy 
to return. It was very late. The servants had gone 
to bed and the fire was sinking, a shroud of white 
wood-ash covered the darkening coals. The room 
was cold, but her hands were not chilly with an 
external temperature. They had frozen stupidly 
stiff two hours ago when she’d found the piece 
of paper that she still held by a corner. At first 
she hadn’t realized what it signified. Now she 
knew. It had fluttered off his desk in the library 
when she’d entered to look for something to keep 
her company, to read till Jimmy should return. 
Often he was out late. Business. . . . She was too 
cold to move. If only God would send one icy, 
relentless blast of wind through the tall windows 
to freeze her, to kill her sharply and at once. But 
no cold death would come, only at length, Jimmy, 
and Jimmy wasn’t God — now! Of course she 
ought to have known. Perhaps that was why Mrs. 
Naughton, kind busybody Mrs. Naughton, had 
questioned her so repeatedly lately, looking down at 
her slantwise anxiously, trying to discover if what 
every one else knew she knew. Did every one 
else know? Ah! but she hated their pity, if they 
did. “ One has to take the ups and the downs, 
my dear,” Mrs. Naughton had said. “ Ups and 
downs.” Would she too come to think of things 
in this way, calling Heaven “ ups ” and calling 



RANSOM 


195 


" downs ” Hell? And men? How shameless and 
wantonly cruel. Better to have told her; she would 
have tried to understand. Now, suddenly, she was 
lonely, shut out, waiting on the threshold of his 
heart with the door fast closed, locking her out . . . 
locking her out. . . . 

But when he came in eventually, she could find 
no words to tell him clearly her anguish. He was 
surprised to find her up so late. She could see him 
now, standing beside the door, straightening his tie, 
his cheekbones sullen red, his cheeks white, as they 
always were when he’d been drinking. He was 
obviously discomforted at finding her waiting for 
him. He smiled woodenly. 

“ Hallo! Still up, my dear? And the fire out?” 

She faced him, her eyes dull and tired, her mouth 
very firm but pitiful. 

“ Yes! I waited for you. I had to.” 

“ Had to?” He was puzzled. 

“ Why?” he demanded, instantly suspicious. He 
moved towards her, and she started back, swaying 
a little. For the life of her she could not answer 
him like this, directly and brutally. 

“ What’s the matter? You ill?” 

She shook her head. He regarded her fixedly, 
and then with a grunt sank into a chair and searched 
in a waistcoat pocket for his cigarette case. 

“ You must be ill,” he said. “ What is it?” 

Then she said: “ I found this.” 

He plucked the slip of paper from her dead 
fingers. He recognized the address at once, the 
name of a house-agent. He had no need to re-read 
the note. One sentence only leapt into flaming 
significance: “ . . . The purchase being satisfactory, 


196 


RANSOM 


we would be glad to know if you wish to take the 
lease in your own name or that of the lessee (Miss 
Wontner), an early reply . . .” 

But he never took his eyes from hers. Deliber¬ 
ately he folded the letter and slipped it into his 
pocket. For an eternity neither spoke. The clock 
ticked loudly and the cinders in the grate rattled 
through the bars. 

“ Well?” he asked. The word was a menace. 

“ I found it,” she repeated. And then with a 
bitterness unexpected, “ Oh, dear God! Why did 
I find it?” 

He bit his lip, and — 

“ If I say I’m sorry-” 

She shook her head wildly. 

“ Oh, Jimmy! How could you? How could 
you?” 

He clicked with his tongue impatiently. 

“Now look here, Isabel, it’s not a bit of good 
making yourself ill about it. As a matter of fact, 
it’s nothing!” 

“ Nothing?” 

“You women! My heavens, Isabel, a man’s 
affairs don’t concern his wife if she’s sensible.” 

She came suddenly to life then, the colour crim¬ 
son in her cheeks, and arms outstretched. She spoke 
very softly. 

“Sensible! Sensible, what’s that? Am I to be 
sensible, Jim, when you’re — you’re keeping another 
woman? Dear, dear, don’t you understand what 
that must mean? It’s not my love that matters, 
Jim, nor myself, nor my feelings. Not that. It’s 
not the shame, Jim, nor the pity other people will 
give me-” 




RANSOM 


197 


“ They don’t know!” he exclaimed. 

She nodded sadly. 

“ Not know? Dear, if they don’t know now, they 
will. Oh, it’s not that. It’s this only. You never 
came to me and told me you must go — like this! 
You went and left me to find out, and if you had 
told me, dear, I should not have made a fuss. I 
would have been so proud — so proud to think you 
had told me. I might have helped. That’s all I 
wanted, Jim. To share things. It must have been 
my fault — failing you. But I tried. I tried so 
hard. You might have trusted me. I’d never stand 
in your way, if you want to go.” 

He rose from the chair, his face turned away 
from her. 

“ I don’t want to go,” he said quickly. 

“ Then tell me, Jimmy. I’ll try to understand.” 

“You’re a woman!” 

“ I’ll try, Jim.” 

He glanced at her sharply. 

“See here! It’s no good, Isabel. No amount 
of explanation makes such matters any better. Any 
man knows that. As you’ve found out, you’ll have 
to accept it. It makes no real difference to you.” 

“ You won’t trust me?” 

“ Good God!” he replied savagely, “ I don’t know 
what you’re talking about — this trusting business. 
You’ll have to learn, that’s all.” 

“Yes, you’ll have to learn, that’s all!” That’s 
all. How long ago was it now? She was becoming 
confused again. The wooden bars before her 
grew larger, receded, blurred . . . “ learn, that’s 
all ”... the darkness was deepening, she was sink¬ 
ing. Now pain afresh, swelling, thrusting through 


198 


RANSOM 


her; a sticky sweetly smell suffocating; pain ebbing, 
down . . . down. . . . Dreams once more. She 
was swimming in wide waters, warm and deep and 
infinite. Far above her head, directly it seemed 
above the apex of her brain, a star shone. Strangely, 
when she strained to look upwards to catch sight 
of its hopeful radiance, it glided just beyond her 
range of vision, like a speck before the eye. She 
must see the star, because once seen it would drop 
nearer, till it settled almost upon her and then at 
length would bum up all the waters with its heat 
and set her free. If only the intolerable weight of 
her head would allow the necessary bending back¬ 
ward. At the effort, she felt her head toppling, 
snapping her neck. She was drowning: thunder of 
waters, darkness. . . . 

Breathing was easier now. Ah! she could see 
those wooden bars again. Came a confusion of 
pictures and faces: Jimmy’s, Leonard’s, Mrs. 
Naughton’s, Mother’s. She groped for memory. 
Yes, there was something else to be rehearsed, 
before she could call for Jimmy to let her out of 
prison. Coming. . . . 

A fresh clean smell of — what was it? — sharp 
and sweet — firs! Firs and fir-cones! A wood, by 
Barbary. No, not that! A voice singing far back 
in her mind, a husky voice, “ Oh, Honey, when the 
silver moon is gleaming! Stars a-dreaming — oh, I 
wantcher! . . . wantcher!” Why did those idiotic 
lines make her want to cry? 

Then another clear picture. 

Jimmy was just out of his bath. The razor was 
rasping over his chin. She was standing half-dressed 
by his side and saying: 


RANSOM 


199 


“ Can’t we, Jim?” 

He grimaced at himself in the mirror, pulling 
down one side of his cheek with forefinger and 
thumb, the better to reach the bristles that hid 
beneath his jaw-bone. He wiped the razor on a 
fragment from a roll of paper. 

“ What d’you say?” 

‘Can’t we go, Jim. Just you and I — to Majorca. 
Only for a short week?” 

It was a last desperate attempt at recapture. 
There, where the sun was bright and the sea deep 
blue, where the outside world was cut off, with him 
all to herself and memories, she might find the 
lover of those first days: where the waves toppled 
on to the shelving beach and the houses were white 
in the strong light. 

“ How can I get away?” he parried. 

She was asking for trouble, she knew that. But 
she must make the attempt. 

“ Naughton can carry on, can’t he, Jim? I would 
so like it.” 

“ Of course you would. And when I come back 
I should find everything in a muddle.” 

“ But Naughton’s a good man. You always say 
so.” 

“ I dare say he is. But what, my dear girl, do 
you know about business, I’d like to know?” 

No, she knew nothing about business, but 
wouldn’t he come, for a week? Wouldn’t he see 
the pleading of her heart behind the assumed care¬ 
lessness of her tone? 

“ How can I get away when Lingfields is just 
starting on this big campaign?” 

“ Then you won’t.” 


200 


RANSOM 


“ No,” he replied. “ I can’t and I won’t. Bless 
my heart, haven’t you got everything you want?” 

“ No,” she answered slowly, “ no dear. It’s you 
I want.” 

He snorted. 

“ Why must you talk to me when I’m shaving?” 

“ But you’ve finished, Jim.” 

“ Well, I want to dress. Really, Isabel, I can’t 
understand you. I give you all I can; you’ve better 
clothes, a better home than ninety per cent, other 
women. I can’t do more. You’re greedy!” 

Greedy! My heart, but that was cruel. Greedy! 
And somewhere the sea broke on a dusty shore, 
where Jim had loved her, before she failed him. 
. . . Locked out, she was now, locked out. . . . 

The picture dissolved in a half-conscious mist of 
acute discomfort. She felt sick, and was aware of 
vomiting. The spasm cleared her mind. Still, she 
could see the bars before her. Between reality and 
fantasy she was poised, drowsy, but more com¬ 
fortable now. She began to consider her where¬ 
abouts, gave up the attempt contentedly. She was 
so exhausted, that only sleep mattered. Sounds of 
the room became distinct and intermittently very 
sharp, piercing her brain; a tinkling, a clinking, 
and as it seemed a rapid clapping of hands. 

In the Square the beech tree is shaking its leaves 
to attention: twig nudging twig, then a long deep 
rustling sigh of wind tilting through the branches. 
The autumn haze, last breathings of the dying 
flower-petals on the grass, draws a grey cloth of 
shadow over the gardens, half-way up the front of 
houses. A sign of day completed, hours covered, 


RANSOM 


201 


hope of hours to come signifying — life leaving — 
life quickening. . . . 

Where had she been this eternity? swinging down 
and upwards through dreams, where should she 
awake? It was so difficult to remember clearly 
her starting place. She pieced the puzzle pain¬ 
fully. She had been on a long journey. That was 
why she was so tired. Now perhaps she had 
come home. Home? Somehow. It was a distaste¬ 
ful word. Home meant a repeated twelve-hour lone¬ 
liness; an ordering, an arranging of her house, of 
Jimmy’s house. What an age ago it must have 
been when she and Jimmy climbed the hump of 
Martinsell, and watched the evening shadows draw 
lengthening patterns on the flat wide plain of the 
Pewsey Vale beneath! Or Majorca and the sun! 
or the moon a disk of silver, a shield hung 
above the columns of Barbary. Home and marriage! 
What a queer thing was this joining of man and 
woman together for eternity: “ Which is an honour¬ 
able estate.” Was it? Did that depend upon the 
parties of the contract, or because God and a priest 
had said so? It was funny that love was taken 
for granted, but only if it was “ honourable.” There 
must be two sorts of love then, one recognized and 
lauded, the other ignored yet condemned. And yet, 
love meant only one thing — a long giving and a 
gladness therein. Was it a sin against the Holy 
Ghost to refuse love? If that was so, Jimmy 
was already damned. Had he not refused her 
love, hoisting a screen of indifference and cynicism 
between them both? 

The wooden bars were still there. She heard 


202 


RANSOM 


a moaning near by, and suddenly realized the sound 
was of her own making. 

A voice, “ Better now,” flicked her abruptly into 
consciousness. She was not in prison, she was in 
bed. The rails at the foot immediately ceased to 
mean terror. Instinctively she stretched out her 
arms, feeling somehow that there should be reward 
for this dark journey. She was immeasurably glad. 

“ There, now.” 

A movement beside her, the displacing and rear¬ 
ranging of sheets, a warm blanket close against her 
breast, a clear and ringing message flashing into 
her brain . . . looking down, within a foot of her 
face two small, wide, blazing, blue eyes in a red 
orange of a head: two eyes blazing that message 
up to her, filling her with a passionate sense of 
tears and praise. 

“ A fine boy,” and Nurse smiling benignly at her. 
She looked up gratefully. 

Miniature Jim, wriggling beside her, scrabbling 
with pink soft nails at her neck, new small Jim who, 
by his minute presence, dried up all her tears, was 
the sum total of existence, burning up all sad things 
past and to come; new Jim, whom she could shape 
to her heart’s desire, some one who’d be glad because 
she loved him and would take willingly and greedily. 
She wasn’t locked out now, the door was wide. The 
gates of Heaven were not such as this. . . . 

As she shifted her arm to draw him closer, she 
heard her husband’s heavy footsteps on the stairs. 


IV 

REALITY 

. . that which thou sowest is not quickened 
except it die.” 

















CHAPTER I 


At the age of six Robin Brockenholt worshipped 
an unorthodox Trinity. Reluctantly he placed God 
in first place of authority, Isabel a good second, and 
then Leonard. Daddy was beyond his comprehen¬ 
sion: a somebody bigger even than God, and with, 
he imagined, the minor characteristics of Satan. Not 
that he disliked his father, but, having learnt that 
caution and cunning were necessary when approach¬ 
ing him, he took him as an accepted fact better 
left alone and only occasionally investigated, with 
an eye on a line of retreat, as an interesting phenom¬ 
enon. God he knew well and intimately, being in 
frequent conversation with the Deity and on the 
best of good terms. Of all Powers God was one of 
the nicest and easiest to deal with. He didn’t 
answer back nor possess inscrutable “ big ” ways. 
Isabel was, he secretly admitted, akin to God, but 
having questioned her one bedtime as to whose 
sovereignty was more worthy of his zeal and devo¬ 
tion, he had been forced to concede only second 
place to her. He lamented this fact for some little 
time. Having invited heavenly advice and found 
a satisfactory reply within himself, he conceived an 
admirable plan. In its execution he discovered 
in his father a trait which later led him to think 
of Satan and his parent as allies. It was a first con¬ 
scious rupture. 

Behind one of the larger trees in the Square 
gardens and near to a noisome but intriguing 
205 


206 


RANSOM 


potting shed, mouldered a high rubbish-heap of 
leaves and flower-pots. This place, assuming for 
the moment an almost Sinai-like importance, was 
to be the area allotted to the ceremony that once 
and for all should settle the harassing assignment 
of God or Isabel to divine right of the universe. 
With consummate skill he had dodged nurse, by 
an assumed loitering near the rhododendron bushes, 
till with a quick and frantic run he reached the 
hallowed ground, forbidden by authority on the 
score of dirtying clean clothes. As if clothes weren’t 
worn but to be dirtied! Arrived at the mound he 
had selected two of the largest flower-pots and with 
infinite care placed them upon the soggy summit. 
Round them he had heaped a wall of mould and 
decaying leaves and triumphantly crowned his temple 
with a broken slate. This accomplished, ritual was 
essential. He had broken a button off one of his 
shoes by dancing round the shrine to the accom¬ 
paniment of “ I love God, and I love Mummy.” 

Isabel, wishing to bid short good-bye to him 
before she accompanied her husband to a lunch at 
Mrs. Proutopoli’s, had found him kneeling before 
his work, and with clasped hands and upturned 
blue eyes praying, “ And so I hope you’ll be happy 
ever afterwards. And if you’re not it’s your own 
fault.” 

Brockenholt, impatient of delay, had followed her. 
He was not more than twenty paces behind when 
she asked: 

“ Pob, darling! whatever are you doing?” 

He said “ Amen ” loudly twice, and then, sur¬ 
veying her with a wide grin: “ Marrying you and 
God.” 


RANSOM 


207 


Brockenholt, his foot tapping on the grass, called: 

“ Come along.” 

“ One minute,” and Isabel bent to fasten the bro¬ 
ken buckle. 

Her son stroked the ospreys on her hat with 
grubby fingers. 

“ Pretty hat,” he remarked, and then seeing his 
father scowling at them both: “ Daddy’s waiting, 
mummy.” 

“ I know. Keep still, darling,” said Isabel, and 
then: “ Why were you marrying us, Pob?” 

“ Because,” he replied, wrinkling his small brow, 
“ because you ought to be married to God, and 
then ” — with triumph — “ you’re both equal.” 

“ The buckle’s broken, and you’d better run in 
and get nurse to mend It,” she said to cover her 
laughter. She knew the child too well to risk hurt¬ 
ing his feelings. “ A bunch of nerves,” Brocken¬ 
holt had once called him. 

“ Come now,” cried Brockenholt, and noticing her 
smile, “ what’s he done?” 

She told him, and at that, hot with being kept 
waiting while, as always now, this small intruder 
was attended to, he jerked out: 

“ Well, it doesn’t strike me as being particularly 
humorous. We’re late, as it is, and we’ll be later 
while you encourage blasphemy.” 

He’d not meant to whip her like that, this morn¬ 
ing. He had been in a particularly good mood 
till four minutes ago. But punctuality was chief of 
women’s vices, best virtue of his own. Didn’t she 
have enough time to spend with the child, as it 
was, without this perpetual interference of his 
own plans? Nevertheless, he nearly apologized a 


208 


RANSOM 


moment later, but withheld the words, as nowadays 
he was always restraining such phrases. He laughed 
it off in the car, watching Isabel slyly, but the 
formality and aloof regard of her eyes cut him short. 
They lived much within themselves these days. 

But Pob had heard, understanding less of the 
actual words than the irritated gestures and the 
flickerings of empty anger. From that date he 
had decided that Brockenholt was beneath satanic 
influence. 

Notwithstanding this decision he found life a 
delicious thing. The house in Fulham Square was 
big enough to provide adventures. His nursery he 
cared for little, but the box-room off the top landing, 
next to Mrs. Bortle’s bedroom, was a palace. Pack¬ 
ing cases and old trunks covered most of the floor 
and a dismantled bed leaned against the wall behind 
the door. The window was small and high, with a 
strong ledge and, having enlisted the sympathetic 
assistance of Waller in moving two boxes to climb 
upon, he had made for himelf a seat close against 
the pane, an aerie from which he could just discern 
the traffic passing to and fro beyond the precincts 
of the Square. When Isabel was out and it was not 
one of the afternoons on which Leonard called to 
play with him, he would mount the boxes and beat 
upon the sill with fat small fists, humming to him¬ 
self and inventing romances. The angle was too 
acute for him to see the lower windows and bases 
of the houses opposite, but the top stories and the 
chimneys especially were friends of his. Mysterious 
things were always occurring, lights going up before 
bedtime in winter, blinds being lowered or raised, 
and once, to his great delight, among his beloved 


RANSOM 


209 


chimney-pots, he watched three workmen crawling 
over the roof to fit telephone wires. At least, Mrs. 
Bortle had told him the three cautious figures were 
electricians, but he knew better. 

“ They’re not,” he contradicted her solemnly. 
“ They’re leprechauns.” 

“ Bless the child,” said Mrs. Bortle, “ and what¬ 
ever may them be?” 

He was not sure himself, but that didn’t prevent 
him telling her: “ They’re sort of little fairies and 
little men all mixed up together. They live in the 
bottoms of trees and climb up sometimes.” 

“ What for?” asked Mrs. Bortle maliciously. 

“To see, of course” — and as a trump card: 
“Leonard told me!” 

“ Did he, now,” said Mrs. Bortle; “ and what else 
has Mr. Davies been telling you?” 

“ Lots,” said Pob deeply. “ He’s very nice. 
Mummy likes him.” 

“ Whatever next?” cried Mrs. Bortle, and sigh¬ 
ing, “Poor young thing!” 

“ Who is?” demanded Pob. 

“ Me, of course ” — hastily. “ Now don’t you 
fall down, Master Robin, and mind them nails.” 
As she retreated from this too-socratic argument, 
he shouted after her: 

“ Good-bye, poor young thing!” 

“You mind what you’re saying, Master Robin!” 
retorted the indignant Mrs. Bortle. 

The pantry was another cheerful place. Often 
he’d stand against a shelf, watching Waller busy 
with the silver. The glitter and glow pleased him 
and he liked Waller. This spot he treated as 
sanctuary — somewhere to hide from the ever-recur- 


210 


RANSOM 


ring embraces of Lisette. He had once caught 
Lisette in a similar predicament with Waller. He 
knew she’d never venture to follow him into the 
pantry, where his high-pitched ribaldry, called forth 
whenever the butler and herself were discovered 
together, could penetrate upstairs. 

But best of all he loved to sit beneath the grand 
piano in the drawing room, while Leonard played 
and Isabel rested in the deep armchair by the fire. 
He was never so happy as then. It was thrilling 
to wait for the taut strings immediately above his 
head to start their rumbling or tinkling tune. More¬ 
over, Leonard’s shoes were an added delight. Often 
they were nutty brown and high shining, and with 
a burnt match it was easy to dig out the accumula¬ 
tion of polish from the little holes decorating the 
uppers. Leonard was always so pleased to have the 
holes picked out clean. 

“ You’ll have to be a cobbler,” he told him. 

“ No,” said Pob, “ I’m going to play a pianner 
like you,” and Isabel and Lang-Davies had ex¬ 
changed glances. 

“ I shouldn’t wonder,” said Leonard. “ There’s 
your father.” 

From time to time he interviewed Brockenholt 
in the study beside the drawing room. He neither 
dreaded the minutes spent there, nor looked for¬ 
ward to them. They puzzled him. It was difficult 
to converse with Daddy, but he was invariably 
polite. Those talks took on, in time, a certain 
formula. They opened with the question: 

“ Well, been a good boy?” 

Answers varied, but his reaction to that genial 
question was always identical. At once it brought 


RANSOM 


211 


home to him a sense of inferiority and littleness. 
It made him feel that the big dark man beside him 
was asserting authority, chilling him, patronizing 
him. And it was quite useless to try to explain his 
passion for chimney-pots and why he’d given them 
all names; why he liked Leonard’s shoes and Isabel’s 
rings, and what a marvelous person Waller was when 
known really intimately. These visits were things 
to be avoided, if possible, and to be got over quickly. 
Yet often the sound of his feet pattering rapidly 
down the passage, the slamming of the drawing¬ 
room door, or the shrill squeaks coming from the 
room where Isabel sat, made Brockenholt swear 
strange oaths for a stranger reason. To all these 
others his son revealed himself: to him alone he 
retired behind his small dignity. In this only did 
Brockenholt find himself lacking and faced by 
failure. He’d not wanted the child, but the child 
was his own, usurper though he was. But the 
usurper of what? Isabel’s love? He shrugged 
mental shoulders at that. There was no fault to find 
with her now. Yes, he’d put her through her paces, 
and she was polished and groomed and very worthy. 
But this son of his was different. A queer delicate 
thing, hurt quickly, pleased easily, but pleased never 
by him. That was why from time to time he called 
the child down to him to talk in private. The 
thought of those others observing Pob’s indifference 
to him was intolerable. The talks were private 
practice. But Pob went his own way. 

Now eight years from the marriage at Marlton, 
the house in r ulham Square had changed its aspect. 
When on that autumn afternoon Brockenholt had 
brought his bride to the seven steps, it had shown 


212 


RANSOM 


to Isabel a glorious and welcome front, newly 
painted, garnished for her especial delight: to Rrock- 
enholt it had been a small but fitting home for a 
wife of his. But at this time, to Isabel it seemed 
a prison, to Brockenholt an insignificant and wholly 
inadequate home for as great a man as he was 
rapidly becoming. The lease was expiring, and 
already he was considering a choice of greater and 
wider dimensions. He was certain of his wife now. 

Notwithstanding the publicity which Mr. Save 
Savour had given to the “ amusing incident ” at Mrs. 
Proutopoli’s ball, Isabel had from that date estab¬ 
lished herself. She had, Brockenholt congratulated 
himself, “ learnt.” Amongst the circle to which he 
belonged, she moved easily and gracefully aloof. 
At first her suddenly assumed sophistication and 
chilled indifference had worried him not a little, 
but when he realized that this cold dignity of hers 
roused envy not only in Mrs. Proutopoli’s heart, 
he had become exceedingly gratified. From his 
standpoint she was, in all outward ways, admirable. 
He was proud of her and proud of himself. Few 
men, he imagined, could train as he could. And 
above all he was sure of her. Since that night, six 
and a half years ago, when she had discovered his 
return to Sophie Wontner, no word had ever been 
passed concerning his more private affairs. Nor 
since that date had he seen Sophie nor heard from 
her. Indeed, within a week of that night, he had 
told Miss Wontner: 

“ I’m sorry, Sophie, but’ it can’t be done.” 

“ But, Jimmy-” 

He had, characteristically, cut short explanations 
and argument. 



RANSOM 


213 


“ I don’t intend to explain. I apologize,” and 
with that he had left her, much to her own dismay 
and the disappointment of Mr. Carlo Maude. Carlo 
had been very angry. 

“ My God, but you had him.” 

Sophie had lost her temper. 

“ Do you imagine I’m congratulating myself, 
Carlo?” 

“ Well, it’s bust our idea!” 

“ But there’s plenty of time, Carlo. If we only 
wait.” 

“ On the principle that absence makes the heart 
etcetera, eh?” 

“ I hope so.” 

And as Mr. Maude, a specialist in the art of wait¬ 
ing and watching, approved, no pressure from Sophie 
had been put on Brockenholt, and the affair ended, 
as Horace Svenk put it, “ in unholy smoke.” But 
Brockenholt himself, saying no word to Isabel, had 
experienced a certain satisfaction in relinquishing 
his pleasures. It amused him to think of his wife 
pondering a sin that did not exist. One day he 
thought he would tell her what a silly little thing 
she was to jump to conclusions; meanwhile, the 
situation pleased him. Her suspicions exploded 
should be the lump of sugar that the good dog 
received for performing “ trust.” But Carlo waited 
patiently. 

In this year matters were reaching a climax 
between Lingfields and Motor Transport. Seven 
years before wise men who knew had advised: 

“ If you get a chance, you’ll find your money’s 
safe with Lingfields. If they appeal to the public 
and you can scoop a few shares, do it. If this Mr. 


214 


RANSOM 


Maude fellow presses too hard it’s Lingfields’ oppor¬ 
tunity. Come in on it.” 

By now Lingfields’ opportunity had arrived. 
Month by month the competition had become 
keener, and those first murmurs of the struggle to 
come had developed into the thunder of the adver¬ 
tising artillery. 

“ Neck or nothing,” the wise men said. 

Large sums, directed under the careful instruc¬ 
tion of Mrs. Proutopoli, had found their way to 
Homes for Disabled Miners, Orphans’ and Widows’ 
Benevolent Funds. People who knew wondered how 
long it would be before the name of James Brocken- 
holt figured in an Honours list. They nodded wise 
heads. “ Not so very long. Next year!” 

And Brockenholt, aglow with the thrill of the 
game, spared neither his staff nor himself. Naugh- 
ton, that sour and canny man, grew grim and miser¬ 
able, as was his custom when a fight seemed won. 
Workshops with the red “ L ” in a blue circle 
blazoned on their roofs sprang up all over the 
northern counties. The circled “ L ” on lorries 
and chars-a-bancs was seen on every high-road 
running neck and neck with the yellow cars of 
Motor Transport. Within those seven years two 
railway strikes had paralysed the country, and only 
in the north, where Lingfields and Motor Trans¬ 
port fought for supremacy, had transport been nor¬ 
mal. “ We don’t strike,” was Lingfields’ motto. 
A length behind Motor Transport flaunted “ We 
carry on.” By the end of the second strike, the 
Press had taken the matter up. The Government 
were recommended to examine the methods of James 
Brockenholt and Carlo Maude. Manufacturers 


RANSOM 


215 


from the north grinned derision at the south. The 
Times invited Brockenholt to give his views to the 
public. A rosy future was predicted for the British 
mo'or industries. The success of those seven years’ 
work was guaranteed. “ Brockenholt and Maude 
have saved the country/’ screamed the lesser Dailies 
“ The new era of motor transport has arrived.” 
Already the Ministry of Transport was gathering 
experts for an inquiry. A rumour of official support 
and recognition intensified the fight. 

The wise ones grew frantic. 

“ Neck or nothing. Somebody’s going to bust. 
It’ll be all over in six months’ time.” 

And now, the final thrust, the frontal attack, simul¬ 
taneously and at fever-heat, both firms launched 
their reserves. Came at last the appeal to the 
public. Presses clattered and groaned, discharging 
loads of pamphlets and forms: the circled “L” 
and the red “ M.T.” flared side by side on board¬ 
ings; miles of space were reserved in the Dailies 
from Tooting to Braemar, from Pimlico to Tintagel, 
the pamphlets and applications forms were spread 
area by area, door by door. They flooded in their 
hundreds, till the country grocer realized capital to 
re-invest in one glorious gamble, and the stock- 
exchange clerk sold his wife’s silver for a chance of 
a life of ease. And while James Brockenholt slept 
but five hours a night and was seen but little in 
the house in Fulham Square, Mr. Carlo Maude, his 
lips pursed and his eyes bright, from his bed in his 
flat in Jermyn Street at ten o’clock of a morning 
wrote to Miss Sophie Wontner in Deauville, saying 

“ ... As soon as you can. We’ve got a clear 
seven months, I should say, before any decision in 


216 


RANSOM 


the way of Government subsidies is made — those 
Boards of Inquiry dodder interminably — so, my 
Sophie, pack up your little box and come home right 
away. Svenk sends his love. Brock’s running hard 
for his title. Savour’s well in with his papers. We’ll 
try again, my pretty sweet. And this time-” 

But Isabel was busy. There were dinners to 
attend and dinners to give. Care was taken that 
no connection of Lingfields or Motor Transport 
met. Mrs. Proutopoli had quarrelled openly with 
Lady Wing. The camp was split. Talk ran on 
prospects: every one shared the excitement, only 
Isabel white and cold and remote did her duties 
for her husband’s sake, tactfully and well, showing 
no sign of emotion, a creature apart, sick at heart 
sometimes, thinking of the better days when they 
two had climbed the magic sides of Barbary, wonder¬ 
ing if still the moon shone for poor fools of lovers 
and if the wind still blew carelessly and free. 

And down in Marlton, Mrs. Luke, a grandmother 
with a grandson, mother-in-law of the man of the 
hour, bowed her way into the formerly withheld 
hospitality of Lord and Lady Home. 

“ My daughter, yes, she Is well and so happy.” 

But of these things Pob knew nothing, and while 
lamenting the fact of Isabel’s frequent and enforced 
absences, comforted himself by cementing even more 
strongly his friendship for that freckled and sympa¬ 
thetic acquaintance of his, Leonard Lang-Davies. 



CHAPTER II 


Often, at the house in Fulham Square Lang- 
Davies encountered Mrs. Naughton. This after¬ 
noon, making his way down King Street, he saw her 
majestic figure swaying along the pavement some 
thirty yards ahead of him. He pursued and caught 
her up. 

“ Hallo,” he said, “ going along for tea?” 

She beamed down at him. 

“ Yes, I think so. She’ll be tired and glad to see 
us.” 

He nodded. Isabel would be glad to see them, 
he knew that, but only Mrs. Naughton could have 
stated the fact so confidently. She was always so 
definite and solid. She swam through life, digni¬ 
fied, mountainous, like a comfortable transatlantic 
liner, steadfastly keeping to her course regardless 
of storms. 

“ She’s a nice thing to have about the house,” 
he’d remarked to Isabel, and she had replied: 

“ She’s a dear. I don’t know what I’d do with¬ 
out her!” 

It gave him some little comfort to think of Mrs. 
Naughton being frequently with Isabel, “ dropping 
in,” being kind and considerate and wonderfully tact¬ 
ful. Ever since the time when he too had taken his 
welcome in Fulham Square for granted, he had felt 
that between the buxom Scotchwoman and himself 
existed a bond, a mutual understanding that had 
never found expression but was completely realized 
and understood. It was as if they had agreed: 

217 


218 


RANSOM 


“ We’ll help all we can. That’s all — and every¬ 
thing.” But now, he too wanted help, fearing that 
one day some quick bitter word of Brockenholt’s 
would set spark to his indignation, and his long- 
endured anger would break forth, a sharp sword to 
cross-clatter that other’s barbed words. And “ that 
would never do.” So this afternoon, walking through 
the quiet side-streets at Mrs. Naughton’s side, he 
found himself rehearsing some opening sentence that 
might lead her to question him further and give 
him opportunity to say all those things he wanted 
to say, to release from captivity a five years’ accu¬ 
mulation of hurts. And Mrs. Naughton said nothing 
to interrupt the thoughts that showed plain for any 
wise woman to see upon his freckled face. But ten 
minutes from the seven steps and the Doric columns 
he asked her suddenly: 

“ Is she very tired?” 

“ Aye,” said Mrs. Naughton, “ I’m sure she must 
be, with all this entertaining and what not. Mr. 
Brockenholt is making grand progress in his busi¬ 
ness, I’m told, and every one is fashed to death to 
know if the Government will take up Lingfields. 
Me husband’s verra silent these days and he’s always 
like that when things go well. But Isabel’s tired, 
puir child. It’s a strain.” 

“ It’s a damned shame,” said Leonard, and on 
that explosion of his resentment they both looked 
straightly at one another, he, full of shame that at 
last he’d broken upon forbidden ground, she, full of 
pity and disapproval. 

“ Well, it had to come,” she murmured more to 
herself than to him. 

“ I’m sorry,” he said. 


RANSOM 


219 


She smiled at him. 

“ There’s no need to be sorry,” she replied. “You 
can’t help yersel’.” 

“ I can’t,” and then rather desperately: “ What 
am I to do?” 

“ Do? You can’t do anything! ” 

“ It’s no uncommon thing,” she added. And in 
answer to the frightened question in his eyes: “ To 
fall in love with another man’s wife,” she gave him. 

He made no answer, dumb with a sudden pang 
of pain, greater perhaps because he knew he was 
understood and sympathized with. 

“It’s not so bad as that!” continued Mrs. 
Naughton. “ I’m not ashamed of you. It’s not 
in my heart to blame you, seeing the way things 
are. But you’ll have to check yersel’ ! She’s sad 
enough now, puir mite, without more to break her 
courage.” 

They walked on in silence. 

“ There’s the child, too. You must pull up, 
Leonard.” 

“ I know,” he said miserably. “ God knows I’ve 
tried to. But I can’t bear it. You don’t know how 
damnable it is. She’s a prisoner there, and that 
devil’s just broken her in, whipping her with words 
. . . whipping her. . . . You don’t know.” 

Then Mrs. Naughton stopped and faced him 
squarely, very grim and large. 

“ I know as well as you,” said she. “ I’m sur¬ 
prised at you, Leonard. But it’s not decent to talk 
about it. That’s no way to love her, making yersel’ 
miserable and wretched when she’s wretched, too. 
And if you say anything to her — I’m finished with 
you. Not know , indeed!” 


220 


RANSOM 


He stood like an abashed schoolboy before her. 

“ I’ll try,” he said. 

“ I know you will. It wouldn’t be you if you 
didn’t. I trust you, Leonard.” 

They were by the seven steps. She arranged her 
fur about her neck, and began to mount to the 
door. But at the third step, he stopped her. 

“ Mrs. Naughton?” 

“ Well?” 

“I’m not — coming in, now.” 

“ You’ll not be going in when I’m gone?” 

“ No.” 

“ Promise?” 

“ Yes.” 

She held out her hand. “ I’ll say you couldn’t 
get away.” With his hand in hers she towered 
above him. “ You’re a good lad, Leonard.” 

“ Good-bye,” he said and, snatching his hand 
away, turned and walked quickly down the Square. 
She watched him till he crossed the road and dis¬ 
appeared round the corner. As Waller opened the 
door to her, she was still nodding her head and 
whispering, “ Dear, dear. Dear, dear — now.” 

“ Leonard asked me to say he couldn’t get away 
this afternoon,” she told Isabel at tea. 

“ He’s very busy?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Pob will be disappointed.” 

Mrs. Naughton munched her scone loudly before 
she spoke again. 

“ Mr. Brockenholt’s verra busy too, I’m thinking. 
Me husband’s like a bear, these days. We’re all 
busy.” 

Isabel sighed. 


RANSOM 


221 


“It’s this big fight. Jimmy talks of nothing 
else. There’s a title for the winner.” 

“ Aye, but he’ll get that, anyway,” said Mrs. 
Naughton, and to herself: “ If money’ll buy such 
trash. You’ll not know me then,” she added. 

But Isabel, rising from her chair beside the small 
table, disregarding Mrs. Naughton’s frantic endeav¬ 
ours to wipe butter from the corners of her mouth 
and the ends of her fingers, unceremoniously put her 
hands against those plump, smooth cheeks and, 
kneeling beside her, said: 

“ Don’t say that, Noggins. Don’t say that. What 
should I do without you sometimes? You do know, 
Noggins, don’t you, that you’re a very present 
help in time of trouble?” 

Dear, dear now! Two of them in one day. So 
sudden, too. Did any one ever have such difficult 
young things to deal with? As if it wasn’t bad 
enough to have that young fellow breaking his heart 
and not coming in because he didn’t trust himself, 
without Isabel, brave girl though she was, getting 
all watery and weak and having to speak, just like 
that boy had done, about the things that were 
wounding her so much. Dear, dear, what a to-do, 
and that Waller might be coming in, or the maid at 
any second . . . and those broken words and the 
fair, golden head now against her arm and the thin 
fragile shoulders shaking. „ . . 

“ If it wasn’t for you, Noggins, and Leonard, and 
Pob ... I shouldn’t know sometimes how to carry 
on — properly. . . . You see, I failed him once 
. . . Jimmy, I mean . . . and he never forgave me! 
It’s all this, Noggins, money and position and a 
big show and — nothing else! And Pob ... he 


222 


RANSOM 


didn’t want him, Noggins — doesn’t really want him 
now. . . . They don’t know — the others, Mrs. 
Proutopoli and all of them — I’ve never let them 
see . . . but I hate them! I hate them! Hate 
them! and their rotten ways and all the clever 
things they say. ... I hate them for liking me, 
for the things they praise me for . . . it’s all ashes, 
Noggins, burnt-out poor things that don’t count 
. . . not like Pob does, and Jimmy and you 
and Leonard and everything that’s real . . . ashes, 
Noggins. . . 

“ There, there,” said Mrs. Naughton, disen¬ 
gaging one hand to dab at her buttered lips. 
“ There, there, dear. You mustn’t make your 
pretty face all red and marked. That’ll never do.” 

And at that Isabel rose to her feet, tall and white, 
two bright flaming spots on either cheek, the tears 
still glistening there, her eyes cold and hard and 
“ burning,” thought Mrs. Naughton afterwards, 
“ burning you all up.” 

“ You’re right, Noggins, it wouldn’t do. Jimmy 
would come back and see I’d been crying, and then 
he’d say, ‘ Had a nice day?’ and watch me when 
he said it, or ‘You look flushed! Been playing 
with young Davies and the kid?’ That’s what he’d 
say and then go and shut himself in his study for 
the rest of the evening with a sneer and his papers 
and accounts. You’re right, Noggins, it wouldn’t 
do.” 

Better the tears, unusual though they were, than 
these bitter true sentences. A good cry, yes, it 
did good that, but not this, so frank and passionate 
and — wounding! Poor lassie, there now, there 
now. . . . 


RANSOM 


223 


And as suddenly Isabel, herself again, a smile on 
her lips, brave though they still trembled, shy, sweet 
Isabel: 

“ I’m sorry, Noggins. Poor dear, what you 
have to put up with, don’t you? It’s not as tragic 
as all that. I’ve got Pob.” 

A tap at the door. Dear, dear, that Waller! 
Nasty creature, always on Mr. Brockenholt’s 
side. . . . 

“ I’ve got Pob, Noggins. It’s everything that is!” 

A tattoo of tappings on the door and a face peer¬ 
ing round it, three feet from the door: 

“ Hallo,” and Pob himself in the room, waddling 
towards them, his head cocked on one side, hands 
thrust deep into the pockets of his short blue 
knickers. 

“ Hallo, Noggins. Hallo, Mummy.” 

Mrs. Naughton screwed around in her seat. 

“ Well, I never!” 

“ They’re new,” said Pob, glancing down with 
pride. “ They’ve got pockets! I wasn’t allowed 
pockets before, because I scratched. I don’t scratch 
now.” 

“ What beautiful trousers,” exclaimed Mrs. 
Naughton. “ Pockets and all! You’re growing up, 
Pob.” 

Dear, dear, how like his mother he was with that 
fair hair and bright clever face, sensitive and alert. 
He’d be a great man one day! 

“ They’ve got braces,” he continued, and pulled 
up his jersey to confirm the statement. He was 
very proud of himself. 

Isabel, bending over him, looking into his face: 

“ You’re glad to see Noggins, darling?” 


224 


RANSOM 


He smiled at her, and then with a quick glance 
around the room: 

“ Where’s Leonard?” 

“He couldn’t come this afternoon, Pob; he’s 
busy.” 

“ Oh,” said Pob, and turned his back. “ I got 

-” he said and stopped short. There were signs 

of tears. 

Mrs. Naughton asked: 

“ What have you got, Pob?” and for answer he 
walked behind the sofa and struggled with sorrow. 

“I got-” came a choked voice. 

“Well, Pob? Don’t be silly, darling!” 

“ I got — a hairpin from — from Mrs. Bortle 
for Leonard’s shoes, and — and — Leonard’s not 
coming.” 

“ But he’ll come again, dear.” 

“ Soon?” 

“ I expect so.” 

Did she? What a trying topic this was! Dear, 
dear now. . . . 

“ We’ll play animals,” suggested Mrs. Naughton. 

“ No.” 

“Not animals, Pob?” 

“ No.” 

“ Oh, Pob!” 

“ Not — not unless you’re an elephant.” 

And for the cause of peace, and because Leonard’s 
name seemed but a symbol for trouble in the house 
in Fulham Square, Mrs. Naughton swayed from 
her chair and allowed herself to be flogged by the 
imaginary whips of a fierce and excited driver, from 
the plains of Timbuctoo, near the fire-place, to the 
Himalaya mountains, by the grand piano. 




RANSOM 


225 


But when she left, Isabel by the door said: 

“ If you see Leonard, Noggins, give him my love 
and say I’m sorry he couldn’t come.” 

“ And me, too,” shouted Pob. 

But in delivering that message a day later, Mrs. 
Naughton changed the noun. 

But some days are evil from their first hour to 
their last. At seven o’clock Brockenholt arrived 
home, tossed his coat to Waller, and stamped up 
the stairs to his study. Isabel, stealing out of the 
nursery-annex where Pob was fast sleeping, heard 
the thud of the slammed door, and anxiously looked 
across to that small flushed cheek on its narrow 
pillow, to see if Brockenholt’s carelessness had 
broken slumber. At the slam of the door, she 
saw Pob’s body, a little thin ridge beneath the 
clothes, jerk together, and the next second he was 
sitting upright in his bed, blue eyes wide open and 
unseeing, both arms outstretched in an endeavour 
to thrust from him some intangible sudden horror 
of his imagination. She had crossed to him, and 
taken him in her arms before he had time to scream, 
and as she soothed and comforted him, a maid, 
appearing at the door, whispered: 

“ The master would like to see you please, 
madam.” 

Isabel busy, looked over her shoulders. 

“ In a minute. Tell him. Please ask nurse to 
come up as soon as she can, if she’s finished her 
supper.” 

But it was five minutes before nurse arrived to 
take charge. 

Her husband was sitting at his desk as she entered 


226 


RANSOM 


the study. He twisted round as she closed the 
door softly behind her. 

“ Oh, here you are,” he said. 

“ I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Jim, but 
Pob-” 

“As usual! All right!” 

“ You woke him, banging your door.” 

“ Did I indeed? And will he sleep now, or howl 
the house down for another hour?” 

“ He’s asleep, thank you.” 

“ Well, I want to talk to you!” 

She sank into a chair and lay back, looking at 
him distantly and disinterestedly. His eyebrows 
were drawn together, and a little deep ridge from 
nostril to mouth corner warned her of trouble to 
come. 

“ Nothing to complain of, Jim?” 

The flatness of her voice galled him. It was not 
so easy to hurt her nowadays as it had been 
formerly. To lash her with his tongue had become, 
almost unrecognized by himself, a pleasure and a 
pastime. Once, he had decided, it had been neces¬ 
sary to whip her into shape. The results had justi¬ 
fied the method. It had grown into a habit, 
aggravated indeed by the apparent lack of effect on 
her. He forgot that a pebble in a shoe is hardly 
noticeable after the first five miles of discomfort. 
So he said: 

“ Yes, I have.” 

“ I’m sorry, Jim. It’s a long time since you’ve 
had to find fault.” 

“ Is it? Well, the occasion has risen, curiously 
enough, again. You don’t mind my speaking out?” 
he questioned. 



RANSOM 


227 


“ Isn’t that beside the point, Jim — my mind¬ 
ing? Tell me, please.” 

“ I don’t care,” he said brutally and deliberately, 
“ for you to have this young man, Davies, around 
the place so much.” 

She started, and a painful flush spread over her 
face. 

“ But, Jim-” 

“ I don’t see that there’s anything to argue about. 
At a time like this, when everything hangs in the 
balance, we can’t afford to let anybody — talk!” 

The colour ebbed, leaving her very pale. He 
prepared for an outbreak. He wanted it. It would 
give him opportunity to drive his request home. But 
instead, she answered calmly and was as cool as he 
was, though almost unrecognizably white. 

“ I understand, Jim. You don’t want Leonard 
to come and see me any more?” 

“ You have remarkable insight. That is precisely 
what I mean.” 

“ Is that all?” 

“ No.” He frowned at her. “ There’s Mrs. 
Naughton. You must please remember that she’s 
merely the wife of my manager. Need I say more?” 

“ Can I see her sometimes?” 

“ Of course. But not quite so frequently.” 

“ Thank you.” 

He struggled to keep his temper. He’d every 
right to say what he had said, hadn’t he? She was 
his wife and, by God, she should remember it. As 
for that cub, with his books and writings and rest 
of it. . . . What did she mean by that “ thank 
you ” ? Somebody’d been putting ideas into her 
head, he supposed. The less she saw of these gos- 



228 


RANSOM 


siping nobodies, the better for every one concerned. 
She sat there now, so unperturbed and collected, 
that, damn it, it looked as if she didn’t care. 

He stood up. 

“ You understand what I say?” 

“ Yes, Jim,” — wearily, still in that flat empty 
voice. “ Yes, I can quite understand.” 

He’d let fly in a minute if no tears came. He 
was absolutely in the right. This indifference to 
his wishes must show what a confounded little she 
cared for his affairs, Lingfields, his future, so prom¬ 
ising, so full of glory to be. But before he could 
speak again, she too was standing, before him, her 
face level with his chin, her arms straight down by 
her sides. She said: 

“ I understand, Jim, and I am sorry. I ask you 
to believe that. As for Leonard, I don’t think you 
quite understand what you have implied. We’ve 
been married eight years now, Jim dear, and all 
that time I’ve been trying to show you I loved you. 
Dear, you haven’t given me much chance, if you can 
say things like — that! I’m still trying hard, Jim, 
because I know how much you want this promise of 
success to be fulfilled. But, dear, more than that, 
I’m pleased to do as you want, because, Jim, I love 
you still.” 

She looked past him, seeing through the study 
window the serene glory of the beech-tree in the 
Square, and as quietly and clearly she continued: 

“ Only, Jim, sometimes, one thing frightens me 
very much. Do you know what that is? That 
you’ll stop me loving you. Snap me. Don’t do 
that.” 


RANSOM 


229 


He glanced down at her anxiously, his wrath sud¬ 
denly evaporated. 

“ You see,” she was still saying, “ women are like 
that when they love — terribly. They are long- 
suffering and proud in love. It’s not heroic, because 
they are just made like that. They like giving. 
But, Jim, sometimes they break — not their hearts, 
that’s little compared to what I mean — they all 
break up inside, and they don’t love any more. 
They hate — terribly. They forget pain in love; 
they remember it in hate. One must avoid the 
breaking-point.” 

She smiled at him till he saw her as some stranger, 
a new creature, wrought indeed by him but of a 
pattern unknown, incomprehensible. Years before, 
when they had sat in that meadow in Sussex a few 
months after their marriage, he had experienced 
this side of her, when she had asked him: 

“ Why did you marry me?” 

One other remark came back to him: 

“ Oh, my dear, one wants children, doesn’t one?” 

Now, as then, he was at a loss. In some way 
she was remote and unfathomable. Wise, less sel¬ 
fish, he might have understood at either of these 
supreme moments that he was faced with no obscure 
problem but that of accepting her love as she would 
wish to give it: seeing, indeed, that in her own way 
she was calling for that Black Brockenholt of Marl- 
ton who had wooed her, trying to penetrate to that 
personality of his who had walked the forest paths 
a certain afternoon when Sophie and Carlo had fled 
from boredom in the car, and who, finding initials 
carved upon a desk, had cried inwardly, “ I wish I 


230 


RANSOM 


could go back. I wish I could have another chance.” 
Now as then she sought to find that side of him; 
now as then the beast that Miss Wontner knew so 
well, stood between them, still far-off from death, 
the beast that had haunted her dreams when Pob 
was born, the barrier and the dark cloud. 

And, unwilling to deny that possessor, to say to 
her simply, “ I too understand; I will tell you. 
Let us try again, both of us, together this time,” 
pride — “ a dangerous thing,” Lang-Davies had said 
to himself the night of Mrs. Proutopoli’s dinner — 
pride mocked him, so he hesitated. And irreso¬ 
lute, fumbling for words, he saw her smile gently, 
pat his sleeve and turn and go from the room. And 
the closing of that door for the third time was the 
closing of his heart to hers. For, settling down at 
his desk again till dinner, he said: 

“Oh, hell! Womenl” 


CHAPTER III 


There was nothing cheap about Carlo Maude’s 
flat in Jermyn Street. It was, by reason of its posi¬ 
tion on the first floor, of its extra room wedged in, 
the most expensive in the block. Carlo himself 
would explain: “ My hut’s all right as far as it 
goes. But small, of course; but then, I’m a bachelor 
only splashed here and there with matrimony. Four 
rooms and the usual offices ought to do a fellow 
when he’s nine months out of the year on his own. 
Like the Queen of Spain, eh?” 

Now at seven o’clock, while two miles away Isabel 
Brockenholt closed the study door of the house in 
Fulham Square, he was occupied in arranging four 
glasses and divers bottles on a dumb waiter in his 
dining room. Beside the Angostura bottle he placed 
a box of cigars and a gold cigarette box. Matches 
in a silver cover completed the array. He wheeled 
the collection through the dividing curtains into 
the main room and started towards the small 
kitchen at the back in search of a lemon and two 
oranges. Hi£ man was out, as invariably happened 
when Carlo had “ business ” of some sort or another 
on hand. As he returned, the bell rang violently. 
He opened the door with a free forefinger and, fruit 
in hand, smiled greeting to Miss Sophie Wontner, 
Mr. Horace Stanhope Svenk and Mr. Save Savour. 

“ Come in,” he said, “ and sit about the place. 
You know the way, Sophie. Lead ’em in.” 

They filed in, Mr. Savour throwing his black 
231 


232 


RANSOM 


felt hat on a chair, and Svenk allowing his Stetson 
to remain upon his head. 

“ My, but it’s hot outside, Carlo. I could do 
with a drink.” Carlo, chipping the lemon with a 
dessert-knife, said: 

“ That’s what you’re going to get. And then 
for a nice family talkey-talk. Give Sophie a cushion, 
Savour, will you? She looks as if she wants to go to 
sleep.” 

Sophie, already curled up on the Chesterfield, put 
the pink tip of her tongue out at him. 

“ So’d you, Carlo, if you’d been hopping half 
across Europe to call at this hovel. Darling, I hate 
absinthe in Martinis, and don’t be obstinate. Give 
me a smoke, somebody.” 

Said Carlo, shaking the mixture vigorously: 

“ I’m glad you’ve come, Sophie. We’ve got to 
get busy.” He filled the glasses skilfully. “ One 
for you, and one for you, and share the bag between 
you.” 

“ Now, then. Good luck, chaps.” 

They sipped in silence. 

“ Do you mind taking your hat off, Mr. Svenk,” 
from Sophie, her eyes half-closed; “ it’s such a filthy 
shape. Thanks so much. Well, Carlo?” 

Maude glanced round. 

“ Better begin at the beginning, eh?” 

“ Surely.” 

“ It’s like this, Sophie, mia, you’ve been out of 
the country so long since the bust at the Essex 
Galleries — by the by, you oughtn’t to have let 
that happen, it would have paid in the end — that 
you’ve probably not heard about Lingfields and us, 
eh?” 


RANSOM 


233 


“ Of course I have,” said Sophie. “ Don’t I read 
the papers?” 

. “ Well, that being so, just let me state the posi¬ 
tion. Just follow, Svenk! In six months’ time 
the Government, bless them, are going to decide 
whether Lingfields or Motor Transport shall be 
recognized officially. They can’t subsidize two 
shows and they’re going to make a choice. At the 
present moment half a dozen beavers are probably 
sitting, hatching out our future. It’s difficult to 
judge exactly where we stand but I guess it’s not 
far off a dead-heat. Five years ago, my pretty 
sweeting, you and I agreed to lead little Jimmy 
Brockenholt astray-” 

“ If you’re going to raise that,” said Sophie, 
“ I’m off.” 

“ I’ve got to. Let’s put it like this. It didn’t 
come to much.” 

“ It wasn’t my fault. He quitted at the last 
moment.” 

“ I know. We needn’t go into that. But here’s 
the point, ain’t it, Svenk? Brock and I have had a 
good deal of publicity one way and another, and the 
country’s taken the motor business to heart. I 
know Brock’s been running the Proutopoli crowd 
pretty hard for a title. That ’ud be a certainty, 
anyway, now, for the winner, eh? We’re keeping 
pace with Lingfields, Sophie, and we’re just as good, 
but we’ve never had Brock’s pull with the crowd. 
But, me dear, the Government are going to take up 
the show that’s got the most capital. ’Cos why? 
They hate putting their hands in the pockets. 
They’ve only just scraped through with this Build¬ 
ing Scheme. Moreover, capital means popularity, 



234 


RANSOM 


and they’ll drive hard for that. The country’s got 
to be pleased. But the country’s going to back 
something "it’s certain of. They’re swinging, now. 
We want a row, Sophie. It doesn’t matter how big 
or how little, we want something. A little nasty 
noise that’s going to make the Honours Committee 
think twice about recommending Brock’s name on 
their List. Seen the Evening Herald? Yes, no? 
There’s two columns in it. Guff, but good guff. 
That’s Savour. He’s well in. Eh?” 

Mr. Savour nodded. 

“ They’re keen on the stuff. It’s good and newsy. 
They fall over one another for latest developments. 
You wouldn’t believe how this stunt’s taken. It’s 
sound, too.” 

“ Certainly it is,” agreed Svenk. He nibbled his 
shred of lemon-peel. “ I can tell you, Miss Sophie, 
that in a long business career, I don’t think I’ve 
ever had so good a thrill as this one is. I’m real 
excited. It’s sound, too, as Carlo here says. The 
transport business on a large scale has got to come. 
We’re going to beat those bone-heads with the 
circled ‘ L.’ We’ve got to. We can’t afford to lose, 
and that’s honest.” 

“And they can’t afford to lose, either,” said 
Carlo. “ And that’s why, Sophie, we want you to 
have another shot. It’s a little side-line that may 
make a difference in the end. I don’t say Brock’ll 
fall for it. That’s up to you. He’s not on good 
terms with his wife. We all know what he is: 
damned headstrong and wilful, and can’t bear to 
be beat. Any ideas, eh?” 

“ We understand each other, Carlo?” asked Miss 
Wontner. 


RANSOM 


235 


“ That’s agreed. You’ve got my word. I’ll settle 
up with you, Sophie. If we’re in, you can have 
what you want. I’ve told you so.” 

For some few seconds Miss Wontner appeared 
to be fast asleep, the cigarette smoke still curling 
out of her nostrils, and tight little mouth pressed 
together, one white slender arm behind her head. 
Then she spoke: 

“ Do you really think this idea of yours is going 
to work, Carlo?” 

He clicked his tongue. 

“ Can’t say. It’s worth trying. Under ordinary 
circumstances, no. But this fight’s at fever-heat, 
my dear. A touch might do it.” 

“ It’s worth it,” said Svenk. 

Said Sophie: “ All right,” slipped off the couch, 
and prepared to leave. “ It’ll be too damn funny 
for words. No, I won’t want another, thanks. Any¬ 
body coming?” 

She left with Mr. Savour. 

After three minutes’ deliberation Svenk asked: 

“ What’s the history?” 

Carlo grimaced. 

“ Same old tale. Threw her over to get married.” 

“ Well, there’s nothing in that.” 

“ There’s the hell of a lot,” said Carlo. “ See, 
I’ll make another! A hell of a lot, Svenk. She 
liked him.” 

“ She didV’ exclaimed Svenk. 

“ She thought she didn’t, but she did. She found 
out, too. You know, Svenk, there’s the devil of 
a lot of good in that girl, somewhere. That’s her 
trouble. They’re a queer crowd, that sort. Born 


236 


RANSOM 


promiscuous and with a cash-complex, tough as 
nails, till you find their soft spot.” 

“ And he’s that?” 

“ I always think so. It’s her own fault, of course. 
She asks for trouble. Always has. She just does 
what she wants to and lets the rest go hang. She’s 
plucky too.” 

“ That so?” 

“Yes. Plucky and transparent. She hates our 
friend.” 

“ You mean she’d like to do the other thing.” 

“ Be keen on him? Well, what’s the difference? 
You dining anywhere?” 

“ Yes,” said Svenk, “ with you.” 

But two days later, Carlo Maude received a letter 
from Miss Wontner. 

. . . “ At the Imperial. He was eating there 
alone. It’s a beastly place, opposite his offices. I 
found out that he lunched there usually and waited. 
All things come to good girls who wait, don’t they, 
Carlo? There’s a sort of lounge place, so I sat 
there, feeling beastly hungry, and with a taste in 
my mouth like the bottom of the parrot’s cage. 
(Your young friend Savour gets drunk too quickly.) 
Nevertheless, having put on my best beggax’s cos¬ 
tume, I sat and twiddled my thumbs, all worked-up 
like. Well, he came out, fully glutted after half an 
hour. I’d taken a seat near the door, so he couldn’t 
fail to notice me. I’d distinguished myself as a 
competent city typist, by the way. You know, nice 
shiny elbows and a bashed hat. He spotted me 
right off, and pretended he didn’t see me, but the 
hat did it, Carlo. My dear, it had takeu me all the 


RANSOM 


237 


morning to bash. It was just too awful. When 
he saw the hat he said ‘ Christ!’ under his breath. 
I looked up at him then, and did the modest maiden 
(I'm good at that. It always works with them 
under twenty-five!), and made to get out. He fol¬ 
lowed me. Last time, you see, I’d had Paquin on; 
Pimlico hit him hard. I fled. He followed. At 
the island in the street he caught me. What d’you 
think he said? Just this: 

“ 1 What in hell, Sophie, is that on your head?’ 

“ I was awfully pleased. It was too priceless. 

“ ‘ It’s a hat,’ I said. 

“ I’ll swear he groaned. We got talking then, 
real heart-stuff, darling. I told him my history, 
standing there on that blasted island with the buses 
whizzing by. ‘ I’m broke,’ said I. 4 What?’ says 
he. ‘ Bloomin’ well broke,’ says I. I think he 
thought I was on the streets! He took it properly. 
He was hurt. 

“ ‘ Down and out, Sophie?’ 

“ ‘ Down and out,’ says I. 

“ He was awfully upset. You see, five years 
ago he’d bought a flat for me. He always hated 
to see what he called ‘ pretty women up the spout.’ 
I looked it, then, all right. I think he felt a bit 
mean: I meant him to. And the consequences were? 
He said that he couldn’t stick seeing me 4 down,’ 
and that, for the sake of old times, O ye Gods! 
he’d give a hand. Purely platonic, of course. I 
gave him an address in Bloomsbury, and he’s going 
to get in touch with me and ‘ put me on my legs 
again.’ So that’s that, Carlo darling, isn’t it? 
He’s just the same. Full of himself and very impor¬ 
tant. God, it’s funny when you look back, isn’t 


238 


RANSOM 


it? He’s a mess, I do think. Never was good 
enough to be good, or bad enough to be bad. It’ll 
be an awful job changing when he calls. I’ll bet 
he does call. I find it fearfully hard to become 
really decently dowdy. I’ll report progress. Any¬ 
way, the first step’s made. He likes decorating 
women and he’s got a good chance now. You can 
take me out to lunch tomorrow, if you like. Tell 
Svenk (have I spelt him right?) that his hat’s too 
filthy for words. Also tell young Savour that two 
lunches isn’t my price for a squeeze in a taxi that’s 
got no springs in the back seat. These kids down 
from Oxford don’t seem to have any sense in their 
heads nowadays. Tell him, Sophie keeps Sophie 
to herself, will you? He’s a nice thing though, if 
only he wouldn’t use Honey-and-Flowers hair-oil. 

“ I’ve got to bash a hat now in case I meet Jimmy 
again, and practise looking shoddy and reformed 
and virginal in a mirror. It’s a scream. By the 
by, when we lunch tomorrow, you can take me to 
Seldon’s afterwards. There’s a hat, there. . . 

Carlo Maude was very pleased. He rang up 
Horace Stanhope Svenk. 

“She hates your hat,” he told him; “but, my 
God, I do believe she’s put it across.” 

Svenk was hurt. 

“ Hell! but these hard hats can’t be worn.” 

“ No?” asked Carlo. “ But I guess they can be 
taken off.” 

“ I was liking that lil’ girl,” said Svenk. 

“ Common failing,” said Carlo, and rang off. 


CHAPTER IV 


Now indeed was the house in Fulham Square a 
prison. There seemed but one inhabitant there, 
free of care, unfettered by the atmosphere of things 
to be done, yet even Pob discerned that good friends 
lost make sad hours. Leonard came no more. There 
were no shoes to be picked, no tumbling tunes 
between tea and bedtime. How, in truth, could 
Leonard come, since Isabel’s letter to him? 

“ I find this terribly difficult to say,” she had 
written, “ but as the fact is to be faced it seems 
best to get it over and done with at once ... so 
you see, Leonard, it’s much better if you don’t call 
very frequently. Jim is all agog with his business 
affairs, and it would be a poor reward to him, after 
all he’s done for me, to worry him at such a time, 
when he’s full of anxiety. I know you will help 
me out . . .” 

Lang-Davies, wrathful and .agonized, had 'de¬ 
manded of Mrs. Naughton: 

“ You told her?” 

“ I, Leonard, told her?” indignantly. “ Bless the 
boy, it’s a great fool you must think me. I’ve had 
a note too.” 

He read it. 

“ So we’re both forbidden the house?” 

239 


240 


RANSOM 


“ It’s none of her doing, puir mite. It’s that 
great husband of hers, all worked-up and proud and 
headstrong.” 

“ Murder’s too good,” said Lang-Davies. 

But Isabel’s time was fully occupied. Lisette was 
in constant demand. 

“Lisette! Lisette! has the frock arrived? Well, 
quick then. Yes, the pearls. He’ll want me to 
wear those.” 

The calendar on her escritoire in the boudoir was 
crossed and re-crossed with engagements. “ Meet 
Jimmy for lunch 1.30. The Albemarle, to meet 
Sir Carr Borton.” “ Dine alone with Proutopoli. J 
out.” “ Sir Carr and Lady C., two others. Dinner 
here.” There was little time left to worry over deeper 
things. These affairs must “ go with a bang.” Ling- 
fields demanded it, Lingfields would win by them, 
by this gathering in of “ influence,” “ right people,” 
and “ good big money.” The days were a scramble 
from place to place, a short time for dressing, swift 
journeys in the car, shakings of hands, new faces, 
old faces, chatter, chatter, interminable, inexhaus¬ 
tible, and with always the same anxious topic — 
“ Lingfields.” Instructions jerked out by Jimmy. 
“Now, Sir Carr Borton! He’s behind the Globe. 
Do anything you like, but keep in with them. Lady 
Carr’s a cat? Doesn’t matter.” “ Don’t forget to 
ring up and ask Mrs. Proutopoli to bring that list 
of addresses.” Jimmy thundering into the house, 
storming out of it. “ For God’s sake, hurry,” and 
occasional scraps of information from him during 
a meal interrupted by the telephone ringing. “ We’re 
winning all down the line. We’ve got the pull over 
Motor Transport. The public’s responding.” 


RANSOM 


241 


“ What does that mean exactly, Jim?” she’d 
asked. 

“ Mean? They’re slamming their money into us, 
that’s what it means. Backing us!” 

“ And all because you’ve issued shares — those 
application forms you sent out.” 

“ Well,” — snorting — “ how else can they put 
their money with us unless they were asked.” 

“ They write in, do they?” 

“ Yes, yes! Leave the business side alone, you’ll 
never understand it. Is everything all ready for 
Monday?” 

But if Lingfields took first place in their thoughts, 
nevertheless a secondary anxiety cropped up now 
and again in the mind of each. In moments 
snatched from the welter of business, Brockenholt 
considered, vaguely disturbed, the reappearance of 
Sophie Wontner “ down and out.” Poor little 
Sophie! Damn shame, it was. Something ought 
to be done for her. What was Carlo thinking 
about to let her get as low as she must be? If it 
wasn’t for the business, he’d go and see Carlo and 
make him do something. After all, she wasn’t his 
concern now, though five years back he might have 
committed himself. In a way he was sorry he’d 
let a whim close that reopening of the old inter¬ 
course. Sophie wouldn’t have been so badly off 
now, if he’d had anything to do with it. More¬ 
over, came regrets. They’d been good times, those 
in the old days, that time at Capri when first he’d 
caught sight of that flaming hair and peaky deter¬ 
mined little face. She was wild too and exciting. 
None of this frigid remoteness like his wife had. 
But that was as it should be. He remembered a 


242 


RANSOM 


quotation out of somebody’s book, a jolly book by 
a chap who was pretty famous, wasn’t he? “ Tem¬ 
perament, the best thing in a mistress, the worst 
thing in a wife.” That was true. It worked. But 
to think of Sophie, plucky little witch Sophie, “ down 
and out!” Pretty bad, pretty rotten! When he’d 
time he’d see what could be done. Lord, but how 
things came back. That night down at Marlton 
when he’d said good-bye to her: “ It’s too damn 
funny for words. We understand one another, and 
that’s all there is to be said!” She’d taken it well, 
hadn’t she? Just saying “ good night ” and walking 
into the porch without another word, knowing 
“ good night ” meant “ good bye.” Perhaps he 
hadn’t behaved very well! But what else could 
he have done? He’d been upset and filled with 
conflicting emotions. Anyway, it had had to be. 
“ We understand one another.” How vilely badly 
most people managed their affairs, blundering along, 
without a thought as to their ultimate direction. 
And now she was “ down and out.” . . . 

And while Brockenholt found seconds to give 
Miss Wontner’s plight consideration, Isabel worried 
because Pob had lost something of his usual vivacity 
and sometimes would be found sitting disconsolate 
and queerly still on the boxes in the room next 
to Mrs. Bortle’s. At these times his lips were pressed 
together and a treacherous spot of colour glowed 
in either cheek. Once he was cruelly sick in the 
middle of the night, clutching at Isabel (who had 
jumped from bed, at nurse’s urgent tapping), with 
hot bent little fingers and the perspiration starting 
from his forehead, making even his hair damp and 
“ rat-tailed.” He was always terrified of sickness, 


RANSOM 


243 


but when the attack passed he lay back in his cot, 
smiling up at her, as Isabel washed his lips, and 
telling her emphatically that he was quite, quite 
right now, and there wasn’t any pain left; there 
really hadn’t been very much, anyway, just a sort 
of gulpiness deep down and there you were. Isabel 
tired and shocked out of her scanty rest, had taken 
courage to knock at her husband’s door, and at 
two o’clock in the morning question him as to the 
advisability of seeing a doctor. He, too, was tired 
and, complaining bitterly, asked what the devil was 
the matter? 

“Jim, dear, Pob’s been dreadfully ill! What 
am I to do?” 

“ Do? What’s the matter with him? This is 
pretty sickening, Isabel, at this time of night.” 

She’d looked very frail and piteous, shivering in 
her nightdress and flimsy kimono, facing his temper 
at this low hour, chilled and weary, but forcing 
him to recognize his responsibility, never before 
towards herself, but now most emphatically towards 
his son. 

“ All right, I’ll come and see.” 

They had returned to Pob, and Brockenholt had 
questioned him. What was the trouble? Tummy? 
Better now? Been eating — what? 

“ Nuts, Daddy.” 

And he felt all right? 

“ Yes, thank you.” 

Perhaps some instinct, strong in sensitive children, 
told him that this temporary sickness of his would 
bring trouble to his mother for rousing his father 
from sleep. The idea came naturally to him, who 
had heard at times this same dark man say unintelli- 


244 


RANSOM 


gible, but from the tone of his deep voice, dreadful 
things to the angel-person who now sat so white and 
anxious at the foot of his bed. Somehow he realized 
that this beloved creature and his thunderous father 
thought differently about him. He didn’t want to be 
a “ nuisance.” He’d been called that before. It 
meant loud voices and stampings and splutterings, 
that were really rather funny, if it wasn’t for the fact 
that his mother looked so ghostly and cold after¬ 
wards! At any price such a re-occurrence must be 
stopped. It was Mummy who really mattered! 

“ And you ate a lot of nuts?” 

“ Yes, Daddy.” 

Only two really, but then they’d think it was his 
fault and that was as it should be. Perhaps it was 
his fault. Nurse had said nuts were indigestible. 

“ Well, good night, Pob, and go to sleep.” 

And outside the door Brockenholt had said: 

“If you let him bloat himself on things like that, 
of course the kid’ll get indigestion. What d’you 
expect? He’s all right now.” 

“ You’re sure, Jim?” 

“ My dear woman,” he replied, “ you’ll make 
yourself ill if you aren’t careful. Kids always upset 
themselves. They’re like beetles! Gorge till they 
burst!” 

“ Really, Jim? I’m worried. Had he better have 
a doctor?” 

“ Twenty, if you want, but I’m not staying up 
all night, neither are you. We’ll be up nearly all 
tomorrow night at Sir Carr’s. Get away to bed, 
or you’ll look like a dish-clout in the morning. He’s 
all right.” 

“ Truly, Jim?” 


RANSOM 


245 


“ Good God, yes. I should have thought you’d 
have understood children better. Now go to — bed!” 

In the morning Pob, if a little ashamed of his 
lapse, was very well. 

Brockenholt, looking in at the nursery before he 
left for the office, declared that he was “ right as 
rain.” He told Isabel as much. 

“ I’d better get the doctor, I think, Jim.” 

“There’s no hurry, my dear girl; besides, what 
time today will you have to hang about? I do 
wish you wouldn’t worry. You’ll be getting fitted 
all this morning; you lunch out, and this afternoon 
the Nevilles are coming. And tonight there’s the 
Carr Bortons. It’s not so urgent as all that. 
Besides, so much depends on Sir Carr, and I can’t 
have you arriving with a face like a fiddle.” 

It was true; there would be little time today and 
Jim was very definite. Moreover, having disturbed 
him during the night, to continue argument would 
only rouse him to fury. That would be fatal when 
they must both appear in public. It meant incessant 
irritable nagging all the way in the car that put her 
off her balance and destroyed her self-confidence, 
gained only even now by dint of severe self- 
discipline. Nevertheless, she telephoned Doctor 
Mortimer. 

“ Is it urgent?” he asked, the other end of the line. 

She explained. Her husband didn’t think so, 
but perhaps it would be just as well, wouldn’t it? 
Doctor Mortimer, in his own way, a wise fellow 
with fees as brilliant as his bedside-manner, knowing 
too, after many years of experience, what mothers of 
only children were like, chuckled to himself and 
replied: 


246 


RANSOM 


“Well then, that’ll be all right, Mrs. Brocken- 
holt. I gather it’s nothing much. But I’m busy. 
We’re in for flu again. Tubes and dust and theatres. 
I’ll be round some time this evening. You’re out? 
No matter. You can always ring up, of course. 
Good- bye.” 

And all the morning Isabel honoured her dress¬ 
makers, scrambled off to lunch, and in the afternoon 
did her duty by the Nevilles. 

But at four o’clock Brockenholt left his office, 
nor did he make his way back to the house in Ful¬ 
ham Square. Instead, he travelled westwards to 
the dingier, once lovelier, mazes of Bloomsbury. At 
the top of a long street he alighted and made his 
way along the pavement searching for the given 
number. No traffic invaded the street; on either 
side the square-faced, mellow-bricked houses slum¬ 
bered; doors, blistered by summer, topped by 
cracked fanlights, were carelessly half open or 
deliberately tight shut; windows were sly and sus¬ 
picious with yellow blinds half-down or lace cur¬ 
tains pulled across. A seemingly drowsy street, 
yet watching with half-closed eyes; a concealed and 
secretive street. At night a kind of life would fill 
the house and pace the pavements. People would 
walk swiftly and with echoing heels, voices low and 
surprisingly indistinct would mutter from corners, 
there would be a nocturnal private business here, 
with gently closing doors and blinds, blank now, 
then broadly lit, and with figures silhouetted on them 
from the inside of bright gas-illuminated rooms. 
A street then, filled with a traffic but of no rumbling 
wheels or raucous motor horns. 

At a number on the left-hand side he stopped 


RANSOM 


247 


and pulled the knob beside the door. Beneath, in 
a basement, wires wheezed, a bell jangled, slack¬ 
ened, and tinkled into silence. He rang again, and 
footsteps slapped along a passage, the lock clicked. 
A dignified lady with grey hair, a grim chin and a 
black alpaca dress regarded him stonily. A faint 
smell of fustiness, a little sour, reminiscent of the 
breath of a public-house hung round the dark and 
narrow hall. There was an atmosphere of aggres¬ 
sion about the dignified lady. Brockenholt glared 
at her. He noticed immediately and resented her 
large black shoe thrust instinctively against the 
bottom of the scarcely opened door. 

“ I wish to see Miss Sophie Wontner,” he said. 
“ I understand she lives here.” 

“ Do you know her?” 

The old ugly sneer slipped across his face. He 
looked at the landlady deliberately and insolently. 

“ You surprise me,” he said at length, and caught 
the side of the door before she had time to press 
against it. 

“ I’ve never realized what tact one must require 
to conduct a boarding house in this delightful 
neighbourhood. I do, curiously enough, know Miss 
Wontner.” 

“ She’s not in.” 

“ No? Then I’ll wait.” 

The lady hesitated. 

“ I don’t know . . .” she murmured. 

He grinned at her. 

“ Naturally,” he agreed, “ you wouldn’t. I can 
assure you Miss Wontner will be extremely annoyed 
if you turn me away.” 

“ All right,” she said. “ Come in.” 


248 


RANSOM 


As he stepped by her she glanced shrewdly at 
him and jerked her head upwards. 

“ Upstairs.” 

“Do you mind showing me? Thank you.” 

They mounted the stairs. Linoleum covered the 
floor of the hall, the walls were drab and mottled, 
the banisters curved steeply, twisting high about 
the well of the house. 

“ She is out,” said the landlady, “ but’ll be back 
soon, she said.” A chilly smile flittered across her 
lips. “ She’s only been here a week. You have 
to be careful. We’re respectable.” 

“ Quite. I understand.” He smiled at her. 

She thawed. 

“ In here.” She turned a door handle. “ Not 
long, I shouldn’t say. Cup of tea?” 

“ I’ll wait, thanks.” 

She left him. 

The room was roughly fifteen feet square. A 
window, with a net curtain on a white rod, 
looked out on to a jungle of chimneys. A blackened 
weather-vane swung two yards from the pane from 
the top of a cowled tin vent pipe. A dressing-table 
with a spotted mirror stood on one side, a chest of 
drawers, light brown decked with oak-markings, 
on the other. A folding bed, with two petticoats and 
a chemise tossed on it, was on his right. Over the 
iron and bulging fire-place, the mantelpiece was 
burdened with cheap china figures, thin glass vases, 
and trinket boxes with circular coloured represen¬ 
tations of Margate, Broadstairs, and the pier at 
Hastings. Miss Wontner had chosen her setting 
with care and with something like a touch of genius. 
Brockenholt felt sick. My God! what a place! 


RANSOM 


249 


Clean, yes certainly, but the paper fans, the oil¬ 
paper— with flamingoes feeding — over the wash¬ 
ing-stand, the carpet with its fibre skeleton showing 
through, what a hole, what a filthy hole! He sat 
down heavily in a rocking chair by the window, 
deeply perturbed, wondering if in any way responsi¬ 
bility of his had brought Sophie to — this! There 
must be hundreds, scores of hundreds of similar 
rooms all along this street. And that gorgon in the 
black dress had been emphatic — “ We’re respect¬ 
able.” Doubtless! But heavens, what of those 
other rooms? What a beastly thought, how utterly 
beastly! Sophie near all this! Rubbing elbows 
with it. Sophie, who was so fastidious, so wonder¬ 
fully dainty and with such a passionate love for 
“ things.” Something would have to be done. . . . 

A whispering was going on down below, foot¬ 
steps again, light this time, tip-tip-tap, a little 
snapped-off laugh, that thrust at him like a lance, 
sharp at his heart, a laugh he knew so painfully 
well, of Capri, of other days, of nights . . . and she 
was in the doorway! 

“ Well, of all the people!” 

He stumbled to his feet; towering over her, dark 
with trouble, hesitant. 

“ I thought I’d better come and — see.” 

She slammed the door, plucked off her hat, and 
sent it skimming on to the bed, her hair flaming, 
tumbling over her head. She pushed it back with 
her two hands devoid, he noticed, of rings. She 
blew her cheeks out, “ Lord, I’m hot.” 

He didn’t know what to say. 

“ Jolly place, Jim?” 

He turned his back and stared out of the window. 


250 


RANSOM 


“ My hat!’’ he said. “ Oh, my hat!” 

She surveyed his back with vicious eyes that 
smiled at him the moment he turned. She had him, 
now. Ah! that look of his! Cheated, she’d been 
before. Cheated! It couldn’t touch her now. . . . 

“ Oh, sit down, Jim. Sorry the sofa’s away at 
the wash. That chair’ll bear you.” 

She crossed to the mirror. 

“ Don’t mind if I ablute?” She applied powder 
vigorously. “ As a matter of fact, it isn’t so bad,” 
she addressed his reflection; “ the old girl’s a decent 
sort, when you know her. Better than the last.” 

“ The last, Sophie?” 

“ Um. She swore beautifully. I’ve learnt a lot 
about women lately, Jim. They get a tang to their 
oaths that men never get. I don’t-” 

“ Sophie! ” 

“ Yes?” 

“ What’s happened?” 

She sat on the bed, her legs tucked beneath her. 

“ Life history of Sophie Wontner, one time queen 
o’ Babylon.” 

“ Be serious, Sophie.” 

“ Serious?” she laughed. “ That’s too damn funny 
for words.” The smile disappeared. “ Serious! 
Jim, my dear, you don’t know the meaning of that 
word! It means something you don’t dare do! 
It means thinking — going back, and thinking again. 
Till-” 

“ My dear!” He bit his lip. “ Don’t let’s-” 

“I’ll tell you. After-” 

“Yes. Skip that!” 

“ Well, I ran a show at the Essex Galleries. It 
bust. Drinking after hours. How sweet is liberty. 






RANSOM 


251 


I bust, too. Money’s everything, Jim, to me. There 
wasn’t any. I got into a touring company in a 
revue and danced. I broke a toe one night, with a 
shoe that had slipped its padding. After that — 
well, it’s an easy run down. I’m looking for a job, 
now.” 

“ Wasn’t there anybody — to — to help?” 

“ No.” 

“ Oh, God, I’m sorry, Sophie; I’m so damn sorry.” 
The rocking chair dipped and rose. 

He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. 

“ I must go. See here-” 

“ Well?” 

“ I’ll do what I can, Sophie, I’ll see if I can get 
you into anything; meanwhile-” 

“ Yes!” 

“ Get out of here. Take rooms. I’ll see to it.” 

“ Thank you, Jim.” 

He groped for his hat and gloves. 

“Let me know. Only be — tactful!” 

“ My dear. Of course.” 

“ Good-bye.” 

“ Au revoir, Jim.” 

“ And, Jim. Oh, thank you.” 

“ There, there-” he said, and swung out of the 

room. 

She waited until she heard the door bang below, 
echoing up the well. Then she called over the 
banisters: 

“ Hi!” 

The dignified lady appeared from beneath the 
stairs. 

“ Get me a taxi, will you, Mrs. Nice-person? No, 
wait, in five minutes’ time! You’re a dear!” 





252 


RANSOM 


So that was that! Too damn funny. Carlo 
would jump for joy. She busied herself at the 
glass, straightened the bed, patted the cushions 
smooth in the rocking chair. They were still warm 
from the pressure of his back. Her fingers lingered 
there, warm against that other warmth, touching 
where he had touched, tips of tiny fingers remark¬ 
ably like a caress. Suddenly she snatched the 
cushion and flung it against the wall. You’d got 
to be hard. . . . 

“ Damn you! ” she said. “ Oh, damn, and damn 
you! I do hate you!” 

And with that she too fled from that mean room 
in that mean house, calling out in the hall: 

“ Mrs. Thingummy! My taxi? Oh, there you 
are! Thank you ever so. And my bill? No! 
there’s not any luggage, only a petticoat and an 
undie on the bed. I don’t want ’em. Bye-bye.” 

In Mr. Carlo Maude’s flat that evening was a 
great rejoicing. 

“ Brains!” cried Horace Stanhope Svenk. “ Myl 
Brains and then some!” 


CHAPTER V 


At seven o’clock Isabel was arrayed by Lisette; 
at eight she dined with her husband; at nine o’clock 
she crept upstairs to bid a short good-bye to Pob 
asleep. The room was lit only by the night-light 
on a table in the centre; its daffodil glow rose flower¬ 
ing to the ceiling, a ray, leaking through a crack 
in the carton, darted through the dusk to burnish 
the soft golden crop of hair on his pillow. His 
face was in shadow, and he slept, quietly and 
easily, on his back, an arm uncovered lying outside 
on tie quilt, his fingers as yet twisted round a 
feather half-pulled out of the material, with which 
he’d play himself to sleep. Nurse was downstairs 
mending small trousers against his awakening. 
Isabel stood by the cot wondering if she would 
wake him if she turned him on his side and covered 
the bare arm. As she bent down, she saw that 
his blue eyes were open in the shadow, regarding her 
steadily. 

“ You ought to be asleep, Pob!” 

“ I was,” he said. “ I was, Mummy; I’ve only 
just woked up. Hallo, Mummy.” 

He smiled with pleasure at her white and shim¬ 
mering dress and put out a hand and touched the 
brocade. 

u Are you going out, Mummy?” 

“ Yes, darling.” 

“ Not for long?” 

“ No, Pob, not for long. Back quite soon,” and 
253 


254 


RANSOM 


then, because the question seemed to call for a 
question from her, she asked: 

“ Why?” 

He considered before he replied: 

“ I thought you were going out,” he answered 
strangely, “ and I hoped you wouldn’t go for as long 
as I thought you might be.” 

“ Long, Pob?” 

“ Oh, yes! Weeks and months and years! You 
won’t really, though,” he added to convince himself 
as much as her. “ Not really ” 

“We’d never leave one another, Pob,” said Isabel. 
“ Never.” 

He stroked her cheek with a finger. 

“ I’ve had a lovely dream, Mummy. It’s all 
sort of going on now. Bells and talkings all near 
and nice. Awfully funny.” 

“ Go to sleep now, Pob. Back soon.” 

Clinging to her, rubbing his nose and chin against 
the softness of her neck. 

“ Back soon. Good night, Mummy; good night, 
darlingest poor young thing.” 

“ Good night.” 

“ Good night.” 

Downstairs she said to her husband: 

“ I don’t want awfully to leave Pob.” 

“ Well, Mortimer’ll come soon now.” 

“ Yes, he ought to.” 

But she telephoned the doctor before they left. 
Yes, quite in order. His secretary speaking. Busy? 
Yes, this epidemic. The nurse would know. Yes, 
about half-after nine. Thank you. 

At quarter-past nine she sat by the side of Brock- 


RANSOM 


255 


enholt, whirling through the streets to Knights- 
bridge. Her husband was pleased with her, in a 
good mood. She looked radiant. At nine-thirty she 
was humouring Sir Carr Borton, amused despite her¬ 
self at the old man’s old-fashioned flirtatious plati¬ 
tudes, for once pleased with herself, very lovely, 
very splendid. At ten to ten came a telephone 
message that brought her white as death itself, 
trembling and aghast, to her husband, snatching at 
his sleeve, stammering her terror out to him, regard¬ 
less of the group around him, of Lady Carr Borton, 
of Mrs. Proutopoli, of him, of herself, of everything 
except the terrible thing she had been told. 

By ten o’clock the car was smoking back through 
Knightsbridge, slewing round corners, grinding and 
careering. 

Seven minutes later she was struggling with 
Waller and a uniformed nurse outside the nursery 
door, through whose chinks a sweet, cloying smell 
of chloroform and ether floated, behind which, under 
the glare of the electric bulb, stripped of its shade, 
two men in white smocks, the perspiration dripping 
from their foreheads, leaned over a cot with its rail¬ 
ings down, worked with flying, darting fingers. . . . 

“ Oh, my God, let me in. Waller, Waller, let 
me in!” 

And then Brockenholt, hands on her waist, drew 
her away, down to the drawing room, where she 
sat very still, without speaking, not seeming to hear 
the torrent of words of his vain comfortings, nor 
Lisette’s broken staccato sentences or Mrs. Bortle’s 
thudding feet, nor seeming to taste the brandy her 
husband poured out for her; only sitting there 
utterly still, straining to catch, through all those 


256 


RANSOM 


subdued sounds, the beat of the calamitous wings of 
that dark angel who now too waited in the house in 
Fulham Square. 

And most assuredly did she hear their dreadful 
murmur, as they brushed against the walls of that 
bright nursery, trailed through corridor, down the 
stairs, past the door, and by the seven steps beneath 
the Doric portico swept high to swing their burden 
clear of earth. For when Doctor Mortimer called 
Brockenholt outside and said: 

“ Quite hopeless! I understood the case was not 
urgent. All the difference — absolutely. You must 
please realize everything that was possible, humanly 
possible, my dear Mr. Brockenholt, was done. That 
nurse of yours! Rubbing the child’s stomach be¬ 
cause he had a pain. Simply expediting the burst¬ 
ing of the abscess. Appendicitis that developed, 
amazingly rapid it is in children, into peritonitis. 
Anybody with any sense near at the time would 
probably have saved the boy.” 

And as Brockenholt whispered, stricken suddenly: 

“ He, by now — he-” 

“ By now, yes. Under the anaesthetic.” 

Isabel, rising steadily from her seat in the drawing 
room, with no questioning, disregarding her husband, 
speaking only to Doctor Mortimer, asked quietly: 

“ I may go up, now, please, Doctor Mortimer?” 
and walked up the stairs to the nursery, turned the 
door-knob firmly, and requested the nurse and 
anaesthetist to retire. 

She stayed in the room for several minutes, and 
then, turning out the light, descended the stairs, 
tearless and steady, to where that anxious group 
awaited her. 



RANSOM 


257 


Brockenholt, ready with a supporting arm, started 
towards her. She stopped on the bottom step but 
one, and said to him: 

“ I can manage quite well, thank you, Jim,” and 
reached the floor alone. 

In her hand she held three pairs of small shoes 
tied together by their laces. They watched her 
enter the drawing room and close the door. There 
was a long silence. 

“ Go in,” whispered Mortimer. “ Don’t leave 
her alone. I’ll wait a bit in case-” 

And when Brockenholt went in, he saw her bend¬ 
ing over the fire, dropping one by one those same 
small shoes into the red and crimson flames. She 
answered his unspoken question without turning 
round. 

“ His shoes. He loved shoes. I could not think 
of them just being given away like his toys or any¬ 
thing else. He loved shoes. There’s no harm in 
my doing this, is there, Jim?” 

“ No harm in that,” he said stupidly, and then, 
in his agony, “ Oh, Isabel, Isabel!” 

She pushed him away gently, looking him full 
in the eyes with so gentle and remote a regard that 
he felt the tears burning his lids as they had not 
done since that day in Marlton when he had dis¬ 
covered what her love might do for him. But let 
him touch her, she would not, and he waited there 
till the clock chimed the turn of the night and a 
handful of ashes and two molten buckles rested 
upon the embers, when she said: “ I must go to 
bed,” and left him. 

And at no time from the hours of seven to twelve 
had she cried. 



CHAPTER VI 


There must be death in sorrow, a power to kill. 
Sad sudden things arising, gusts of death quick as 
wind, as the wind quickly gone must bring with 
them death’s narcotic. From this is no escape, else 
how should life, but in a little way only, be mer¬ 
ciful? Nor who shall say what a death must this 
thing give, of heart, of physical being, or of mind? 
Are not, too, a string of little sorrows but one girdle 
of pain, and a greater pain but a clasp and a fast 
lock added? These things must be, and Brocken- 
holt, dismayed, watching his wife, Isabel, searched 
within her half-concealed depths for some sign that 
should show in what manner Robin’s death had 
brought a death of something within herself to her. 
And watched in vain. Sometimes she spoke of the 
boy, more frequently now after his funeral, but 
with no show of tears, pointing out, almost as if he 
still lived, a place, a chair, a corner beloved by 
him. His toys and much of the nursery furniture 
were packed up and sold or given away. She super¬ 
vised these operations as if, according to Mrs. Bortle, 
“ she was counting the washin’, and not sending 
off all them bits of things the little fellar had owned.” 
Day by day Brockenholt awaited the outburst that, 
after the first numbness, he felt certain must come: 
a storm of broken-heartedness that, crying loudly 
to Heaven, would contain in it a token of the great 
blame attached to him. Rather would he have 
258 


RANSOM 


259 


heard those cruel things being told to him bitterly 
hour by hour than to have her like this, so deadly 
calm, so distant and horribly “ natural.” Now com¬ 
pletely was he at a loss. There seemed nothing he 
could do or say. He became afraid. 

One evening, returning early though business 
pressed, in order to be with her in case she wanted 
him, and not finding her in her room or anywhere 
about the house, with a sudden terrible thought that 
at last the storm had broken and destroyed her with 
it, he ran from door to door, calling, “ Isabel, are you 
there, are you there?” But at length he found 
her in the box-room near Mrs. Bortle’s, where she 
stood by the window, her chin on her hands, elbows 
resting on the packing-case that had once been 
Robin’s seat. She made no sign that should show 
she had noticed his entry, but continued staring 
over the chimneys opposite. He felt it was impos¬ 
sible to leave her alone up there, probably counting 
the chimney-pots and giving each the name that she 
and Pob had given them: names which he’d forgot¬ 
ten, in truth scarcely ever known; names now that 
formed a secret link between her and that dead child. 
With a tact and gentleness absent for five years 
from his manner towards her, he passed his hand 
through her arm. Her fingers were cold and as 
he stroked them with some idea of giving them a 
little warmth, a gesture of pleading, he said: 

“ Come down from here, Isabel. It’s draughty.” 

She obeyed at once, but dropped her arm down 
by her side so that he must take free his guiding 
hand. 

“ Just as you wish, Jim.” 

These days always was this tone of submission in 


260 


RANSOM 


her voice when talking to him, and that was seldom. 
It cut him to the quick. 

“ Or if you really want to stay here, Isabel, I’ll 
have a stove brought up?” 

“ I’m quite willing to come down, Jim.” On 
the stairs she asked: “ You think my staying up 
there is morbid, don’t you?” 

“ Well-” 

“ You should say so, Jim. You can always speak 
the plain truth to me. I am quite used to it.” 

He made no answer. 

In the study, sitting on a cushion before the fire, 
she added: 

“ But it’s not morbid.” 

He had suffered her like this for three months, 
now. He was wild with the mystery and pain of 
it. In all places had she been brilliant and brave. 
She had refused to ignore her engagements and as 
regularly as before did her duty by him, with never 
a sign to any one else of the dreadful thing that had 
happened. Therefore people who had admired her 
previously worshipped her now. “ What a woman, 
my dear Mrs. Proutopoli, what a woman! Going 
through all that, and still standing by him at this 
critical time.” “ So unlike young people generally 
these days, dear Lady Carr Borton.” “ And they 
were at my house-” 

Thus Brockenholt in desperation: 

“ Won’t you let me help you, Isabel?” 

“ If you like, Jim.” 

How strong she was now, how unfathomable. . . . 

“ Don’t you think, Isabel, if you let yourself — 
go a little. Get it over, instead-” 

“ Cry, you mean?” 





RANSOM 


261 


“ Yes.” 

“ Cry? How strange, Jim, to think crying makes 
things easier. I can’t cry. I’ve no tears left. 
They’ve all been drained away, a long time ago. A 
long, long time. But then, how should you know 
that? You never saw them. I don’t think any 
one could count all the tears I’ve cried — you, 
least of all, Jim, who caused them. And you ask 
for more!” 

“ Don’t,” he said. “ Is it quite fair, Isabel?” 

“ Fair? To make a thing fair is to give measure 
for measure, isn’t it? All these words. They mean 
so little. You must think, I suppose, that I’m 
behaving purposely to hurt you. If you do, you’re 
quite wrong. I can’t be different. All these years 
I’ve given to you. What more can I give when 
there’s nothing more to give? Is it worth while 
telling you the truth?” 

“ I think you’d better tell me,” he said. 

“ Then, Jim, I would rather take now. I have 
nothing left myself. You’ve taken my friends away, 
even the best, though the littlest of them. You’ve 
taken yourself away from me. And now, to make 
yourself feel more assured and comfortable in your 
mind, you want me to weep and wail. You want 
to come back. You’d rather see me angry and 
accusing you than be as I am. That’s because 
you’d know how to deal with me. You locked me 
out, now I lock you out. I told you. I warned 
you. You are so wise, Jim, that you could afford 
not to listen to me, then. It’s happened, that’s 
all. It’s beyond me, entirely out of my control. I 
simply cannot help it. I’m so strong now, so won¬ 
derfully — free.” 


262 


RANSOM 


“ So you mean-” 

“ I mean, that what I warned you of has just 
happened.” 

“ As much as all that, Isabel?” 

“ As much as that, Jim!” and rubbed her hands 
together gently before the fire. So for the third 
and last time was Brockenholt brought into direct 
conflict, allied with the beast in him, with Isabel: 
once in a Sussex meadow, once in his study before 
Robin’s death, now again in the same place. Occa¬ 
sion by occasion that conflict had intensified. Now, 
indubitably he knew the crisis had come. Twice had 
he ignored her pleading, the third time the very 
weapons of his own fighting were arrayed against 
him. That afternoon in Sussex, a little attention 
to her wishes, a little giving of himself to her; that 
evening in his study, a greater giving: this evening, 
actual sacrifice only could atone. To take her 
away! That was the thing to do. To give her 
now the gift that so often she had asked for; to 
leave London and affairs, and somewhere, hidden 
and alone, to beg her love, to win again the shy 
sweet Isabel of the first years, to cast aside the 
garment of the beast, and, as Black Brockenholt, 
sing beneath her window, plead with her and plead 
with her. Thus only now could Robin’s death and 
the chain of lesser hurts be washed away. And 
it was impossible. To leave London, to spend the 
necessary time with her would mean Lingfields’ fail¬ 
ure. It was impossible. In two months’ time the 
greatest desire of his life would be his; the triumph 
would be completed. But by then. . . . And she 
had said that she was “ free.” Freedom! Of his 
own accord had he bound the ropes around b.inu 



RANSOM 


263 


What, in truth’s name, was Truth? What indeed 
was real? All things mattered so much. All things 
were real. But above all these, Isabel! Isabel 
among the flowers at the house on the Common at 
Marlton; Isabel rosy with love on Martinsell; 
Isabel, at her window calling “ Good night ” 
into the shadows around the road; Isabel loving 
him, who hated him now. And no words of his 
could tell her this: that he, too, torn by the pride 
and the beast in him that only Sophie under¬ 
stood, would give much to return, to warm his hands 
again at that flame. He could not tell her. She 
would not listen. “ All these words.” Deeds only 
now, and it was impossible. Besides his duty to 
her was his duty to Lingfields. Isabel or Lingfields? 

Once years ago he had cried, “ If only I could 
go back. If only I could have another chance.” 

“ All these words,” and so little done to justify 
that desire. Such be the prisons men build around 
themselves, the battlements of which are topless and 
ungated. But the subject had been broached and 
reluctant to open it again later, to sum up renewed 
courage, he continued: 

“ It’s not too late, Isabel?” 

Did not a wise man once say, “ Now at the last 
gasp of love’s latest breath. . . . Now if thou 
wouldst, when all have given him over, from death 
to life thou mightest yet recover!” Even now, so 
with these two; even with Isabel hating him now, 
so hating him. 

Therefore she waited for his next words, knowing 
full well if he should sacrifice some dearest treasure 
for her, so might she even yet not find it in her heart 
to condemn. 


264 


RANSOM 


He was saying: 

“ If we could go away . . . then perhaps we’d 
be able to put all this to rights, mightn’t we? . . 

Now — now would he do this thing, or was still 
his mind divided? But he said: 

“ If you can only wait a little longer . . . till this 
fight is over . . . not so long to wait, is it?” 

So that was his choice, was it? Always would he 
be like this! Only now would she accept first place: 
there could be none other. Those long years and 
still asked to wait. Breaking point . . . and she 
had broken! Time had been when such pleading 
would have conquered. Never again. 

“ I see,” she said; “ you ask me to trust you in 
this?” 

“ You must!” 

“ Must? You can’t go on betraying trust, Jim, 
and then ask for another opportunity. Don’t you 
remember that just before Pob was born I found 
a little bill concerning Miss Sophie Wontner? I’ve 
never brought this up since.” 

He’d known that must come. Well,'it must be 
faced. 

“ I never went — went with her, Isabel. I threw 
it all up after, when you’d found out.” 

“ I am to believe that?” 

“ It’s true, Isabel, on my life it’s true!” 

“ Even if it is, why didn’t you tell me?” 

“ Because-” 

She smiled up at him. 

“ Because, Jim, you liked to keep that to your¬ 
self. A whip. Another whip! ” 

“ It doesn’t alter the fact, Isabel. This is so 
awfully serious. Please listen and believe.” 



RANSOM 


265 


“ I’ve never asked you to listen all this time, 
have I? You’re a bad listener, Jim. I’m bad at 
listening too — now.” And then she asked: “ Do 
you swear to me, Jim, that since that day you’ve 
never of your own free will been to see her?” 

Ah! so he stammered at that! Dear God! to 
lie to her like this — lying still. Rotten with lies and 
cruel deceit. This last hope gone. But she hated 
him, now. Lowering himself so, to plead with her 
in his extremity. There was no good in him. Too 
long had this gone on. Hereafter — freedom! And 
to think this was what she had loved, worked for, 
given to, year by year! She would take from him 
now. 

And Brockenholt, caught so fast in this tangle, 
searched desperately for some means to keep her. 
How could she understand how imperative it had 
been for him to call at that house in Bloomsbury, 
because Sophie was “ down and out”? There was 
a sense of honour in that which she would never 
understand. But he tried, only to be cut short. 

“ This is monstrous, Jim. You ask me to under¬ 
stand that you call on this woman because she’s been 
a friend of yours and is now poor? I think she 
deserves that. You have the insolence to suggest 
that I might sympathize with her when, a few weeks 
after my marriage, she called at my house and 
behaved abominably, when she and you arranged to 
see one another, when you bought a flat for her. 
You ask that? How long do you think you can 
treat me like this? I came to town a silly little 
creature willing to be taught by you. You have 
taught me, Jim. Taught me much about that ‘world’ 
you are so fond of talking about. Do you think 


266 


RANSOM 


now you’re arguing with that little fool of eight years 
ago? I know now just what value all these ideas of 
yours have: just what they’re worth, what you’re 
worth. There was no need to discuss this matter. 
I told you so. You began it. Not only that, but 
you add insult to insult. It’s beyond all human 
endurance. I’ve been a lunatic not to get away 
from it before.” 

He was shocked for the moment. Never before 
had any one so deliberately, so obviously unafraid 
of him, opposed him. This brittle frail wife of his, 
who for so long had been putty beneath his fingers, 
was of steel. And for the last half-hour he had 
been pleading with her, losing his dignity, his omnip¬ 
otence. Well, if she couldn’t give him the chance 
to put things right, she wouldn’t. But, anger surg¬ 
ing, lashed with remorse and hatred of himself, made 
him step beside her and lay a hand on her shoulder. 
She shook it off and jumped to her feet, her eyes 
blazing with passion, breathing deeply, white and 
merciless. She faced him. 

“ Oh! you beast,” she said slowly. “You beast.” 

He has never found what devil’s instinct prompted 
his next action. Only of all passions is shame 
most brutal and profound: deeper than love which 
may breed shame, crueller than hate. No time in 
his life before had he checked his ungovernable 
temper, the anxiety of Lingfields eating into his 
brain, his reawakened love, the scorn of his wife, 
her cold contempt for him, who now strove so des¬ 
perately to speak the truth, the sense of some infinite 
loss, of shameful loss, all combined to stab his brain 
with one sudden and overwhelming madness of hate. 
Without realizing for that second what his action 


RANSOM 


267 


meant, the action itself utterly beyond his control, 
he raised his hand and hit her across the mouth. 
The blow was delivered with knuckles unclenched, 
and even as it was fell short, only indeed his ring 
touching her lips a glancing stroke. She never 
moved from where she stood. Horrified and aghast, 
he saw before him the blurred white outline of her 
face, that only in the red darkness about them, a 
white oval of a face, and at the comer of her mouth 
a dribble of blood. He heard her moan, a terrible 
inhuman soft sound, that froze him with its horror, 
and then she was gone and he was alone. 

He groped his way to a chair and for a long time 
sat there, his hands across his face, his thumbs fixed 
in his ears. 

And in such a manner did the beast in James 
Brockenholt die. 


CHAPTER VII 


At Seldons in Bond Street hats may be bought. 
The showrooms are on the first floor above a jewel¬ 
ler’s, and to reach them it is necessary to take a 
small lift. The lift has only just been added, 
and since there are several million unemployed and 
therefore a shortage of labour, no attendant works 
the lift! A series of small buttons, numbered from 
one to five, will, when pressed, carry a passenger 
from any floor to any other floor. The lift can 
carry two persons, but both will be in close prox¬ 
imity. The door is narrow. 

Miss Sophie Wontner, who had spent an agree¬ 
able hour and a half in selecting a hat, to be paid 
out of the temporary allowance given by James 
Brockenholt, to enable her to dress herself suffi¬ 
ciently well, as supposed by Brockenholt, in order 
to apply for a part in a forthcoming musical comedy, 
stepped from the showroom and walked down the 
passage to where the lift-shaft is to be found. 

The corner is dark, but Miss Wontner, knowing 
Seldons well, experienced little difficulty in avoiding 
a concealed step, and by the shaft pressed the button 
that should bring the lift to the first floor. To her 
annoyance the gate below on the ground floor was 
apparently open, a fact which broke electrical con¬ 
nection and prevented the lift rising. To make 
certain she pressed again, and a hissing and sliding 
of wire-ropes made response. The lift came up 
slowly, the weighted disk on its especial rod descend- 
268 


RANSOM 


269 


ing majestically. As the roof of the lift came into 
view, she transferred her gaze to the weight, a glis¬ 
tening, steely, delightful thing that glided down¬ 
wards. She was therefore a little surprised to find 
the doors of the lift open of their own accord, and 
more surprised to find herself face to face with Mrs. 
James Brockenholt. She had not encountered Mrs. 
Brockenholt since that tea time at the house in Ful¬ 
ham Square. Miss Wontner stared interestedly. 
Bless you, but how the girl had changed! She 
was certainly a credit to Jimmy and his methods. 
Very much the fine lady with that pale delicate face 
and the pale gold hair circling modestly and smooth 
over her ears, beneath the brim of the black hat. 
Very tall in her black dress, very dignified and white. 
Good for Jimmy! 

Miss Wontner stepped aside, eyes aslant and 
amused, chin a little uplifted. But Mrs. Brocken¬ 
holt made no effort to leave the lift, and asked 
politely: 

“ You are Miss Sophie Wontner, aren’t you, 
please?” 

Sophie, cocking her head on one side, the tip of 
her pink tongue running over her upper lip, replied: 

“ I am.” 

Mrs. Brockenholt, in no way perturbed by that 
clipped and somewhat insolent reply, and disregard¬ 
ing the aggressive twitch of the other’s small shoul¬ 
ders, smiled distantly. 

“ I’m afraid I must confess to following you. I 
happened to be passing, and saw you turn in here. 
You will please excuse me accosting you like this? 
But, as you can understand, I have no means of 
finding your address. I wanted to speak to you. 


270 


RANSOM 


Would you be good enough to give me three min¬ 
utes? I have a taxi outside, and I could give you 
a lift into Piccadilly.” 

Miss Wontner considered. 

“ Is this quite necessary?” she asked. 

“ I should consider it a great favour,” said Isabel. 

With a shrug Sophie entered the lift, and together 
they descended, passed into the street and entered 
the taxi. As the driver let in the clutch, Miss 
Wontner, facing a situation as always, deliberately 
and immediately asked: 

“ Let’s have it, then. This is going to be too 
damn funny for words.” 

Isabel, elegant and composed in her corner, raised 
an eyebrow. 

“ I seem to have heard that expressive term of 
yours before,” she murmured; and then, “as we 
have only three minutes, perhaps I’d better come 
to the point at once?” 

“ By all means,” said Sophie grimly. 

“ It concerns my husband,” said Mrs. Brocken- 
holt. 

“ Oh, yes.” Miss Wontner yawned, tapping her 
mouth with small grey-gloved fingers. “ Do go on.” 

“ I feel, Miss Wontner, that in the past you have 
not been always successful in your — shall I term it 

— endeavours? As you are now about to meet with 
success in that direction — or rather, I should say, 
the opportunity is arriving to enable you to — er 

— try again — I would like you to know that such 
success is a little gift from myself. I mean to say, 
you have now my full approval and good wishes.” 

“ I see.” Miss Wontner nibbled the seam of a 
glove-tip. “ Is that all?” 


RANSOM 


271 


“ Thank you, yes.” 

Then Sophie laughed, looking directly at Isabel, 
laughing genuinely, frankly. 

“ Mrs. Brockenholt,” she said, “ I prophesied 
this ’ud be funny. It is, isn’t it? I’m really not 
trying to be rude, but it’s just the situation.” She 
stopped laughing suddenly. “ You know, I’m not 
laughing at you. I’m not really. I do think you’re 
rather splendid!” 

As Isabel only inclined her head, she continued: 

“ Women are so priceless. I suppose it’s because 
I’ve known such a lot of men that I’m direct. I’m 
glad you made me listen to you, because — oh, I 
mean it! I’ve always quite liked you, and now, 
because you’re not going to let me think I’ve called 
heads and won, I adore you. You’ll not understand 
my point of view, but then, you don’t lead the sort 
of life I do. Not quite my fault, you know. It’s 
a good stretch from Aldgate Pump to Park Lane, 
isn’t it? And you’ve got to be hard.” 

She picked her bag off the seat and leant for¬ 
ward. Isabel tapped at the window. The driver 
nodded and brakes grinded. Sufficient unto the day, 
decided Sophie. Luck, and the devil’s luck. Good 
for Carlo. 

Half-way out of the cab she asked suddenly: 

“ Why the black?” 

Isabel replied: 

“ Four months ago my small boy died!” 

At the window Sophie said: 

“ Good-bye, Mrs. Brockenholt.” 

She watched the cab rattle into the stream of 
traffic down Piccadilly. She waited by the kerb for 
several minutes, and then made her way quickly 


272 


RANSOM 


towards the Green Park. She found a seat near the 
path by the railings. 

So there’d been a kid. Pretty rotten for a woman 
who wanted kids. A boy, too. Anyway, now the 
coast was clear. That meant success, and success 
meant security. Yes, it was the devil of a way 
from Aldgate Pump to Park Lane. A stormy pas¬ 
sage. A long, long passage. What a queer sort 
that woman was, grabbing her at Seldons and trying 
to get the last word in. And eight years ago she’d 
been a scared mouse of a thing. Developed, she 
supposed, and developing in that sense wasn’t great 
fun. She knew that well enough. It must have 
been a strenuous sort of going to change a girl like 
that. Then Jimmy was hard. You’d got to be. 
Kids! Heigh-ho! 

Two small girls played on a strip of grass oppo¬ 
site. There seemed to be some difference of opinion. 

“ It is!” 

“ It isn’t.” 

“ It is.” 

Kids quarrelling. Women. Scratch, scratch, 
heigh-ho! . . . Miss Wontner chuckled, so that 
an old gentleman at the far end of the same seat 
thought better of his intentions and moved away. 
The small girls made faces, darted at one another. 
Slap, slap. The smallest girl flat on her back now, 
tripped up, the other on top, about to pommel. 
Nurse floundering along in the middle distance. 
“ Miss Ada. Miss Ada.” Cries and squeaks. Then 
Sophie across the path, seizing the victor by a 
handful of jersey. 

“ Shut up, you little devil! Don’t hit her when 
she’s down.” A cessation of hostilities. Miss Ada 


RANSOM 


273 


speechless, and then with a bellow of rage and fright 
burying her face in nurse’s print dress. The victim 
sitting upright, serge bloomers dark against the 
grass. . . . 

“ She began it.” 

Nurse, uncertain which to spank, hedging. 

“ Thank you, Miss, I’m sure. Miss Ada, come 
now. ...” 

Sophie delighted. 

“ Beat her with a chair, nurse. Hitting her when 
she’s down. Aren’t little girls beastly cads? Good¬ 
bye.” 

She left the park and climbed to the top of a bus. 
What a morning! Women and cads! “ Hitting her 
when she’s down.” Typical. Pity the world wasn’t 
all made of men. Men gave people a chance, didn’t 
they? They didn’t hit people when they were 
“ down.” Only women did that. Most, no, some 
women. Still somebody was dead-nuts on those two 
little rotten girls. Some ass of a mother, who’d 
rave if they pegged out . . . some silly ass. . . . 
A clock, jutting out over a silversmith’s shop in 
Knightsbridge, pointed to eleven. On a sudden 
impulse she scrambled from her seat, smote the brass 
disk violently and as the bus slowed down, leapt 
off and made her way into Knightsbridge Station and 
entered a telephone call-box. There was some delay 
in the exchange answer, and she rattled the receiver 
prong impatiently. 

“ Hallo. Oh, hallo. Yes. London Wall seven- 
two-seven-nine. No, nine” A gruff voice greeted 
her. 

“ Is that Lingfields? It is? Please ask Mr. James 
Brockenholt to speak to me. Say it’s urgent.” 


274 


RANSOM 


And a minute later she was saying: 

“You, Jim? Sophie here. Listen. You must 
take me out to lunch. I can’t help that. Please, 
Jim. All right, then, I’ll be at the Imperial.” 

She walked rapidly past St. George’s Hospital, 
that barrack of pain. A queue, composed mostly 
of women, were waiting by a side entrance. Inside 
that heartless building, she thought, poor tortured 
things on hard beds were thrilled with the prospect 
of fifteen minutes’ communication with the outside 
world. She examined the faces in the queue. They 
all looked the same. Nobody chatted, a dreary 
crowd, stamped with that hard hopelessness of 
poorer people. There must be fifty of them, fifty 
individuals all bound together in a common cause 
of anxiety. One or two of the women with blank 
faces stared at her as she passed. Two young 
girls in woollen coats and rusty black velvet hats 
nudged one another. They giggled. Lord, but how 
beastly, in all that drab line, no sign of animation, 
but a giggle. Soon they’d all troop in and scatter 
to the different wards, trudging to beds made hor¬ 
ribly personal for fifteen minutes, mumble there, and 
try and sympathize. As if they could sympathize 
— really. Nobody could ever truly know other 
people’s pains. Not unless — unless you’d been 
hurt some time so much yourself that the sight of 
anybody else in a similar condition recalled for¬ 
bidden memories. She hurried by. A tall woman 
in black, reminiscent of Mrs. Brockenholt, made 
her cross the road and enter the park. Here it 
was all sunshiny. The Row was striped with the 
shadows of the gallant trees. Perhaps walking 
down the side-path with the flowers at her side, this 


RANSOM 


275 


strange uncalled-for mood would pass away. You’d 
got to be hard. But that drained-out ghost of a 
woman, Isabel Brockenholt, haunted her. “ Four 
months ago my small boy died.” All over the place 
there were children, kicking about on the grass, 
perfectly happy. And they’d all grow up into beastly 
men and women with the yellow streak in ’em. What 
a rotten world! 

The tender slopes, the fairy blue towers of 
Knightsbridge over the trees, the movement and 
colour, these things could not solace her. A large 
blue rubber ball bounced at her feet. She smote it 
back to its minute owner with a sweep of her foot. 

Why hadn’t Jimmy told her he’d got a kid? And 
that now — he hadn’t. What in truth was puzzling 
her? She had him now and, having him, meant 
success for Carlo’s plan and for her security. Money. 
Money and Carlo. Oh, but she didn’t want Carlo. 
Did she want anybody? No, nobody — really. No¬ 
body? What did that Isabel Brockenholt want to 
come and force that encounter for, upsetting things 
like this? Upsetting things? Surely that wasn’t 
right, when her action simplified the scheme. Ah, 
pride it was. Putting her in her place. Making her 
cheap. Good for Isabel! But humiliating. “You’re 
his mistress,” she’d implied, “ and I accept the fact. 
You’re cheap and so’s he. Go to it.” And yet 
women generally tried to keep their men. Lord, he 
must have hurt her to make that mouse-creature 
behave like that. She’d been hurt herself, too. 
Marlton and that night in the porch. “ One day,” 
he’d said, “ you’ll find happiness, my dear.” To say 
a thing like that! Happiness! Well, she hadn’t 
found it yet. Would the carrying through of this 


276 


RANSOM 


idea of Carlo’s bring happiness? It would hurt Jim, 
and he deserved it. It would hurt that wife of his as 

well, and she. . . . “Four months ago-” And 

to say it as she had done, so composedly and quietly, 
just as if she’d been talking about the loss of a five- 
pound note. People didn’t speak like that when 
they were happy. Only the poor in spirit, the 
small in pride, gave way. Brave she was, that 
ghost-woman, brave and proud in her chilly serene 
manner. And bravery wasn’t a thing to sneer at. 
You’d got to be — brave! And now coals of fire 
were to be heaped, “ hitting her when she’s down.” 
What would that fair white Isabel do when this 
latest blow fell, when Lingfields tottered and the 
plot came to light, as assuredly it would, by Carlo, 
his object achieved, boasting and flaunting his wits 
as he always did? She’d stand firm, that woman, 
and smile coldly at the other knowing smiles and 
say to Brockenholt, “ I told you so. That woman 
was always cheap — at a price.” And what of 
Jim? Bad and mad and wild he was, driving 
through life like an eagle, an eagle to be winged 
and brought to earth. And I’m the arrow, she 
thought. But in that victory what triumph would 
there be? Thirty pieces of silver. Only amidst 
that ruin one person would stand unbroken: Isabel 
Brockenholt, with her wintry sad smile; Isabel 
Brockenholt, by right of love and courage. Brave 
love and lovely courage. No, it wasn’t any use: 
better to admit the fact and be honest. “ I can’t 
hit her when she’s down. If I’m rotten I’m not as 
rotten as that. She’ll understand.” But what of 
Jim? Could she bear to be honest in that respect? 
Yes, better so, now. Lonely she’d been a long time, 



RANSOM 


277 


without that presence near. It hadn’t been so bad 
in the old days with Jim about the place. You’d 
got to be hard, but . . . out of them all, she 
thought, Jim only! Jim at Capri, mad bad Jim 
with his sneer and taunts of the beast in him, the 
beast she loved. And had she no right to him? 
Jim, who, for all his intolerance, was above all other 
men by reason of his great spirit, of his indomitable 
will; Jim, like herself, a good fighter and hard; 
Jim, who had no fear. . . . 

She leaned over the railings that edged the Row. 
Horses cantered by with glossy flanks and pricked 
ears; flowers behind and cool green stretches; chil¬ 
dren playing; a couple passing laughing; laughter 
and glad sunshine and the fairy towers of Knights- 
bridge. . . . “ One day you’ll find happiness, my 
dear.” 

Beast of a man, beast she loved. But to those 
same slender towers she said: 

“ I can’t hit her when she’s down. I can’t. She’ll 
win like that. Only, if of his own free will, he 
would come back and stay, come back and stay . . . 
and I’ll ask him.” 

In such a way then did Sophie Wontner live up 
to her self-given reputation for “ honesty.” For 
to be honest with others is no guarantee of honesty 
to oneself, and ten years had passed before such a 
thing was with her accomplished. Now indeed did 
she know that James Brockenholt only could 
give her those things, previously despised, now so 
urgently needed; now indeed would she meet Isabel 
in fair duel, and if she could take, take she would. 
And she was glad to think of that attempt to come, 
realizing that the beast that lived in Brockenholt, 


278 


RANSOM 


that had broken his wife, was her best and surest 
ally. 

And with that she left the park, and within twenty 
minutes sat waiting in the vestibule of the Imperial. 

He was late, and when he arrived, was “ jumpy,” 
she decided, “ and on edge.” He was certainly up¬ 
set. Different, somehow, from that afternoon in 
Bloomsbury when she played her mean part. He 
was heavy with trouble. She put it down to Ling- 
fields. At lunch he told her that things were going 
well, but tonight he’d got to attend a dinner. 

“ What dinner, Jim?” 

“ Press Annual dinner, run by old Carr Borton. 
Very important.” 

“Oh!” 

They ate in silence, and till he questioned her: 

“ You got the — money?” 

“ Yes, Jim, thank you. And I’ve found decent 
digs.” 

“ Good.” 

“ I’ll do what I can.” 

“ Thanks, old sinner.” 

She used the old phrase to test him. He flushed 
and scowled across at her. 

“ What do you want to see me about?” he asked 
sharply. 

“ I must get a job,” she parried. Some time 
surely during this meal she would have the oppor¬ 
tunity, could make it, to find out — to ask him if 
he would come? I’m fighting fair, she thought. 

He explained plans for her, and she listened, her 
mind elsewhere, as indeed it had to be. 

She stopped him in the middle of a sentence. 

“ You’re worried, Jim.” 


RANSOM 


279 


His face wore that same strange tortured expres¬ 
sion that it had that first night down at Marlton at 
the hotel, when he’d tramped into the town alone. 

“ What’s the matter?” 

“ I didn’t sleep last night!” he said shortly. 

“ Why?” 

He flicked a crumb of bread off the table. 

“ Worry.” 

“ Lingfields?” 

He paused. 

“ Yes.” 

It was not like Jim to let business worry him. 
There was something more than this. 

“ Can’t I help?” 

Soon, she thought, he’ll confide in me, as he always 
used to, and a man confiding is a man half-primed. 

He looked across at her, with none of his char¬ 
acteristic assurance. 

“ I don’t think anybody can help me. My Lord, 
Sophie — all last night. . . . Oh, well.” 

“ Go on,” she encouraged. “ Cough it up!” 

“ I can’t tell you everything — but yesterday eve¬ 
ning, Sophie, I discovered something!” 

How funny he was, like this, just as he’d been at 
Marlton. 

“ Well?” 

And then he told her, full of his own agonies, 
“ That most assuredly, above all other things, I love 
my wife.” 

She made no answer. Beyond herself, of his own 
accord, had her question been answered. His face 
lowered, he did not see the sudden tightening of that 
red little mouth, nor the sudden jerk of her head. 
And being Sophie Wontner, most gallant of all 


280 


RANSOM 


voyagers into strange lands, she said: “ I’m glad, 
Jim. I’m very, very glad! ” 

She hardly listened to his words that followed.. A 
long way off they were, pattering unheeded against 
her ears. ... 

“. . . One makes mistakes . . . terrible things 
happen . . . the boy, you see ... all these years 
not even wasted, but distorted, Sophie, distorted 
... it makes one very sorry . . . one’s so proud 
. . . and after all!” 

“ Let’s go,” she said. “ Go quickly. I’ve got 
an appointment.” 

“ Right,” he said. “ Let me know how you get 
on. If I can help ...” 

He left her at the door; and she walked in the 
opposite direction without looking back. People 
glanced at her as she passed. She was very pretty, 
was Sophie. But she took little notice of such 
tributes. She walked too quickly to notice them: 
she was laughing at herself. What else was there 
to do but laugh? Wasn’t that probably the end, the 
answer to everything, one eternal world-without-end 
snigger? Those two girls in the queue outside 
the hospital had giggled; and she’d been disgusted. 
Why? She was being serious then, that was why, 
serious with herself, so they had offended her. 
Well, they were right, dead right, the only people 
with any real sense in that dreary careworn pro¬ 
cession. And now she herself was giggling because 
it was all so utterly futile. All these plots and 
plans that came to nothing! One ought to have 
known. It wasn’t anybody’s fault but her own. 
It served her right. It served Jimmy right. And 
to think that always both of them had thought 


RANSOM 


281 


they understood. As if anybody understood any¬ 
thing. It was the people who were so sure that 
they were right who were blinded by their own sense 
of wisdom. Pride! That was it. Vanity! That 
was why life cheated you of all dear things because 
you thought you knew all about life. That was 
what the Bible meant when it said the Kingdom of 
Heaven was only for the simple in heart. How 
obvious! And all these years to discover a plati¬ 
tude! Too damn funny for words. Of course, 
such things were only for the simple, because then 
one wasn’t clever and conceited. Life didn’t kick 
you; you kicked yourself! Lordy, Lordy, to kick 
yourself and then not to know it! Too damn 
funny! Out of them all, Carlo, Jimmy, herself, 
only one person was wise — Isabel Brockenholt, the 
silly mouse, Isabel, the ghost! And even she didn’t 
know it. Didn’t that make you laugh? I went 
to him to get him back, she thought, and kidded 
myself that I was playing fair. I wouldn’t hit her 
when she was down. And I find that she isn’t down. 
She’s the only one of us who’s up! So high up that 
now she’s everlastingly raised above us. Isn’t that 
funny? Isn’t it? 

So she walked rapidly down Knightsbridge, a trim 
alluring figure, walking steadfastly towards those 
airy tantalizing towers of Kensington, a brave small 
person, laughing because everything was so silly. 
Soon the tangle of traffic hid her and she was gone. 

But by five o’clock post two letters were delivered 
at two different addresses in the City of London. 
They both caused consternation and dismay. Both 
were from Miss Wontner. Thus to James Brock¬ 
enholt: 


282 


RANSOM 


. .So thank you, Jim, for all your good inten¬ 
tions and help. I shall stick to the five hundred 
you put to my credit, but I’m off abroad again. 
The five hundred’ll keep me till I get on the track 
of the dollar. I think this time a disillusioned 
professor of zoology will suit me if I can find one 
with enough to provide me with butter on Sundays. 
Don’t be worried. I can always manage for my¬ 
self. Lord knows I always have done so. It’s no 
good writing here, I’m leaving no address. Bless 
you quite a lot, old sinner. I can’t explain. Isn’t 
everything silly? Don’t worry.” 

Thus to Carlo Maude: 

“ I chuck my hand in. Sorry, Carlo darling. I 
know you’ll be hating me, but I’ve just got to. 
We’ll meet again some day. I’m really sorry to 
let you down. My love to little Savour, and tell 
Svenk to try a white topper.” 

P.S.—“ I’m dreadfully sorry to let you down.” 

P.P.S.—“ Damn sorry.” 

But Mr. Maude was very angry. He slammed 
into his partner’s room. 

“ Look at this.” 

Svenk said “ Hey?” and read the note. 

“ Well I’m-” he began. 

Carlo raged. 

“ And she had him. Had him on toast. Goes 
and does all that, and then — then mucks the whole 
kettle of fish. An’ we got this damn show tonight.” 

He thumped the table with his fist. 

“ They’re all the same. They can never take 


RANSOM 


283 


themselves, some of ’em, seriously. Marry ’em, they 
let you down. Keep ’em, they let you down. Shoot 
’em, they let you down.” 

“ Yep,” said Svenk. “ Eight foot down — sharp. 
Whizz!” 

“ Where’s she gone?” he asked. 

“ God only knows! Oh, perish her! Aren’t women 
cads? Cads, eh?” 

Svenk nodded. 

“ And I liked that lil’ girl,” he said dismally. 


CHAPTER VIII 


The house in Fulham Square was very quiet. It 
was seven o’clock in the evening. Two rooms only 
above the basements were illuminated: Brocken- 
holt’s study and Isabel’s bedroom. The beech- 
tree in the Square, drowsy with the heat, made no 
stir with leaf or twig. A purple ominous wall of 
cloud advanced encircling from the east. Thunder 
in the air, oppression and a lull before the first tear¬ 
ing of lightning and splintering of thunder; a tense 
time, sullen and brooding. 

Brockenholt, immaculate in evening dress, scrib¬ 
bled notes on a slip of paper. Tonight Sir Carr 
Borton was to give his annual dinner to the Press; 
tonight the guest of the evening was James Brocken¬ 
holt, of Lingfields; a great night with all opportunity 
for putting in the final word for Lingfields. To¬ 
morrow the papers would be full of the theme of 
these notes on the small slip of paper. But those 
selfsame details would not be given by himself. 
There was a little plot, a pretty plot. The idea 
had originated from dear old Lady Carr Borton. 
Sir Carr, she’d confided to Brockenholt, could not, 
under the circumstances, call upon the head of Ling¬ 
fields to speak when Motor Transport sat near by. 
That was a thing “not done.” But wouldn’t it — 
and she had been pleased to suggest it — wouldn’t 
it be a nice idea if Sir Carr called upon Mrs. Brock¬ 
enholt to say a few words? Quite impromptu, of 
course, but dear Isabel, and how every one admired 


RANSOM 


285 


her so, would so delight everybody with her naivete 
and charm. Just a few words? 

Brockenholt had agreed. A pretty plot indeed. 
Isabel had consented. He had made these few 
notes for her. He folded them carefully. What 
a triumph was this! Assuredly had his training 
been good to enable her so splendidly to assist 
him. Lingfields and Isabel. A double triumph. 
A grand and enthusiastic night to herald success 
to come, with all the world to watch and hear 
through the columns of the Press. Upstairs that 
silent wife of his was busy dressing. They had 
not spoken to one another since their last meeting 
in the same room, yesterday evening. She ought 
not to be long now. Perhaps he should call up 
to her and hand her the notes, and ask her if she 
was clear about everything — not nervous? But 
that would mean facing her alone, with eyes attempt¬ 
ing to avoid the tiny crimson spot at the corner of 
her mouth. No, better to leave her. It wouldn’t 
do to have any upset at this significant moment. 
Moreover, was it very wise to think too much about 
her? But how could such thoughts be prevented? 
Shame still with him, as it had been all last night, 
scenes, poignantly vivid, repeated themselves, intrud¬ 
ing on these other details, breaking concentration. 
The importance of tonight’s affair could not now 
overwhelm this shame remembered. He had been 
too busy, too preoccupied these eight years to give 
thought to Isabel; now at this extreme moment recol¬ 
lection of many little things done were so many 
scourgings. Even as it had been that afternoon in 
Marlton, so it was now. Pride had made him act 
wantonly, pride was gone. That greatest shame of 


286 


RANSOM 


all, his hand across her mouth, was but little com¬ 
pared with those years’ accumulation of wrong 
things. Yet in that last fatal act did not salvation 
lie, in that its violent reaction had shaken his mind’s 
balance, its set ideas tumbling from their sup¬ 
posedly firm shelf, so that he saw most clearly 
what kind of man he must be to set on high such 
empty gods while the image of reality stood 
neglected. But this image he had made, this 
Isabel, was she not now come to dreadful life, 
and he a Pygmalion whose answered prayers 
were but a gift of sorrow? Long she had served 
him well; now indeed was he a slave, driven by 
his own whips, imprisoned by his own deeds. 
Never again should such things be: he would tell 
her soon, if she would but speak to him. What 
poor thing had he draped with love’s raiment 
when love herself stood naked by, and he, blind 
to her, even now still blind, yet not with a great 
darkness but a greater light. So when these 
affairs of tonight were completed, before Ling- 
fields itself was crowned, he would go to her, 
very humble, stripped of those old worn ideas, 
and ask her only this: to let him stay by her 
and wait, perhaps to atone. And in time with 
care she might know indeed the beast in him had 
died most suddenly and for always. Never again 
to hurt her. . . . There was a song, a silly song, 
wasn’t there, that he used to know —“ Oh, I want 
cher! Yes, I want cher!” He’d forgotten that, 
but now those rubbishy words called up a window 
in the night with her standing there and he on 
the road beneath with the wind tumbling over the 
black clenched fist of Barbary. 


RANSOM 


287 


How tangled these things became: Isabel, Sophie 
and himself. And now Sophie gone, Heaven knew 
why or where, going out again of her own free will 
on another tempestuous journey, driven out of shel¬ 
ter as he too was driven out to face the enemy be¬ 
yond the threshold, himself. But of this enough. 
There was neither time nor opportunity to go to 
her at this moment, but when they returned tonight 
he would say what he must. 

Isabel sat before the glass in her room. Lisette 
would be coming up in a minute. Just time, then, 
to see nothing had been forgotten. She rose and 
opened a portmanteau upon a chair. It was full. 
She rehearsed its contents on her fingers: closed it, 
snapped-to the lock. From her bag on the dressing- 
table she took out an envelope, examined the tickets, 
replaced them. Came a tap at the door. 

“ Come in, Lisette.” 

The maid advanced to the centre of the room. 
Not now Lisette the imperturbable, the efficient, but 
a frightened Lisette with red rimmed eyes and 
trembling hands. 

“ Ah, Lisette. This is the portmanteau. I 
packed it myself. You will take a cab half an hour 
after Mr. Brockenholt and I have left for Sir Carr’s. 
Please put it in the cloak-room at Waterloo.” 

“ Yes, Madam.” 

“ And, Lisette. Take with you my brown coat 
and skirt, the large coat and the felt hat, please. 
They’re all together in the bottom drawer of the 
wardrobe. You’re quite clear about everything?” 

“ Yes, Madam.” • 

“ The ladies’ waiting-room, first class. Be in the 


288 


RANSOM 


doorway by the big advertisement. I will change 
in there. And don’t move away at all. I may be in 
a hurry. Oh, and the jewel-case, too!” 

“ Yes, Madam.” 

“ Thank you, Lisette; will you come back, please, 
in ten minutes to dress me? Thank you!” 

Alone again she moved from drawer to drawer 
inspecting. Yes, everything was neat and left in 
order. The bed-cover was pulled up, the brushes 
and silver boxes before the mirror piled on one 
side, the washing-stand cleared of sponge and tooth¬ 
brush and little bottles. All in order and her mind 
clear and arranged. She knew she ought to be tired 
but excitement stimulated her nerves. This morn¬ 
ing her three minutes with Miss Wontner, this after¬ 
noon a long talk with Noggins. What a lot Noggins 
knew about “ business ” and its ways and means. 
How often had Jim said: “You don’t know any¬ 
thing about business.” Well, she knew now. 
Enough, at any rate, for what she had to do. Cer¬ 
tainly, her speech should be a success. A waft of 
heated, sultry air blew in between the curtains. 
Thunder about. . . . 

How oppressive the place was, but a prison no 
more. Queer to think how one could obliterate 
eight years in prison by a thought of a razing of 
prison walls and freedom. Eight years! No, 
eight hundred years, brimmed with tears. A long 
and terrible nightmare with a nightmare ending. 
Or were endings just beginnings, the chance to 
begin afresh? Or always would four walls confine? 
But an end now to this poor play, a lowering of a 
great curtain and hereafter a choice of memories. 
Even now she could choose those ghosts: whose 


RANSOM 


289 


chin, all raspy with morning-beard, did she touch, 
fearing to waken, or whose deep husky voice close 
to her ear whispering, out of the past, such tender 
silly things — whose voice? Not Jim’s; yet Jim’s. 
Whose patter of feet, small ghostly feet along the 
passage, who strutting across the carpet, hands 
deep in knicker-pockets, bright hair awry? Pob 
with her, and yet no Pob. Ah, but better like 
this ... so much better to live on slowly, spend¬ 
ing the years ahead wandering along those dusky 
corridors of mind till release should come, and a 
long sleeping with her toys beside her, toys of 
her poor love, poor brittle toys. Nor would God, 
seeing that really and truly she had paid her way 
with all her heart’s coin, steal those toys whilst 
she slept, but leave them there so that through 
that infinite last sleep she might in her dreams 
stretch out a slumbering hand and touch them 
for comfort, and if it should indeed come to pass 
that morning came, when light rose eventually, 
wouldn’t she still find them there all ready to handle 
again with delight, and perhaps God, who would 
understand she’d given all and now was bankrupt, 
wouldn’t mind very much if she loved the new real 
Jim who might have been, and the same Pob, as 
much as she would love Him for pitying her so and 
guarding her while she slept. And meanwhile Time, 
uneventful, slipping by, would heal what now was 
raw and painful. Soon it would be all over. Soon 
now. But before that going, a thing to be done that 
should quench her hate. . . . 

She heard Lisette enter and move about the room. 

“ I am ready, Lisette.” 

She sat before the looking-glass while those clever 


290 


RANSOM 


hands worked amongst her hair. Lisette was very 
silent this evening. Her fingers would play her false, 
so that she fumbled with the fastening of the gown. 
At length everything was completed. 

“ Madam tonight is more beautifuller than ever 
before. Madam’s little speech will be a great suc¬ 
cess.” 

“ Dear Lisette.” 

“ Ah! Madam,”—her face turned away, a scram¬ 
bling for a handkerchief. . . . 

“ Dear Lisette. No, no. Don’t do that. Be 
happy, Lisette. I’m happy.” 

“ Madam . . . it is not the leaving, Madam. 
... I say many times Madam should go . . . 
but I have been so proud to look after Madam, to 
serve Madam . . . downstairs they do not know, 
but when Madam is gone . . . not that great pig! 
but we others, who are the servants, they will be 
ver’ un’appy because they see too, Madam . . . 
for long time we watch and see Madam, who used 
to be so shy and sweet, grow cold and hard . . . 
never with us, but always always never cry, but 
look and look ... we are so ’appy with Madam 
. . . and now ...” 

“ Come, come, Lisette.” 

“ It is not only Madam ’oo have a broken heart!” 

Downstairs steps sounded. A bell rang. 

“ The car, Lisette. My dear, bless your faith¬ 
fulness. All of you. My cloak! There! Don’t 
let him — them — see, Lisette. Go to Mrs. Naugh- 
ton’s afterwards. She’ll look after you. Good night, 
Lisette.” 

“ Good-bye, Madam, if-” 

*So for the first and last time Isabel kissed her, 



RANSOM 


291 


and then, gathering her cloak about her, ran down¬ 
stairs. 

Brockenholt, hat in hand, coat over his arm, stood 
waiting. He handed the notes to her. She took 
them without a word. They passed down the seven 
steps beneath the Doric portico, and as the mahog¬ 
any front door with the brass network over its green 
glass panels closed gently, out of the east the first 
wicked snarl of thunder broke the heavy silence. 

Every year the Press Annual Dinner, with Sir 
Carr Borton of the Globe in the chair, is held at 
the Connington Hotel, Northumberland Avenue. 
Not infrequently it is a tedious and heavy business 
of innumerable courses and interminable speeches. 
But on this occasion a definite sense of excitement 
and expectation intrigued the assembly in the Cen¬ 
tral Banqueting Hall. Were not those two furious 
rivals, James Brockenholt of Lingfields and Carlo 
Maude of Motor Transport, to sit at the one and 
the same chief table? And would it not require all 
old Sir Carr’s tact and good judgment to obviate any 
personalities or show any sign of favouritism in his 
address? And would not that address refer very 
forcibly to the “ sterling service ” of both these 
“pioneers in the future means of transportation”? 

No sooner had the four hundred present taken 
their seats before the long tables than glances were 
directed towards that other and more majestic table 
where Sir Carr Borton sat. People whispered and 
pointed with sidelong eyes. “ Yes, the tubby little 
man with the white moustache — that’s Sir Carr! 
Oh, yes! That’s Lady Burrington beside him, and 
next to Lady Carr is old Burrington. He’s one dff 


292 


RANSOM 


the speakers. Terrible. All air and words. Then 
— yes, that’s Brockenholt next to — I forget — and 
that’s his wife beside Sir Richard Penn — you know, 
Penn of the Pictorial — the war-correspondent — 
£ Dick of the Pic! Mrs. Brockenholt next to him. 
And there’s Maude down on the right! What? I 
don’t see how they can expect ’em to speak. Too 
personal.” 

The dinner progressed sedately. Brockenholt, 
beside Mrs. Proutopoli, talked little. It was of no 
account. Mrs. Proutopoli was agog. Her conver¬ 
sation bubbled out of her and overflowed. She was 
very much alive to the significance of the occasion. 
It had given her much pleasure to bow but coldly 
to Mr. Maude in the reception room before dinner. 
She was pleased with her efforts as regards Ling- 
fields. Certainly Mrs. Proutopoli was a woman of 
affairs. 

“ And how’s your dear wife?” she asked James 
Brockenholt. 

“ Splendid, thanks so much.” 

She leant towards him, her fuzzy hair almost 
touching his shoulder. 

“ You mustn’t worry, my dear boy. Tino would 
never let me worry. Everything’s going to go off 
beautifully.” She tittered. “ Won’t it, Sir James?” 

He smiled at her. “ Thanks to you. Lingfields 
doesn’t worry me.” 

“ That’s good then,” said Mrs. Proutopoli. 
“ That’s good.” 

But Brockenholt thought differently. 

Sir Richard Penn, of the Pictorial , who now met 
Isabel Brockenholt for the first time, was agreeably 
surprised. He had been led to expect a young 


RANSOM 


293 


woman, dignified and of surpassing beauty but of 
little enterprise. In point of fact he watched Mrs. 
Brockenholt’s glass with satisfaction. He was one 
of the remaining journalists of a past generation, a 
hearty man scornful of the modern methods of the 
younger members of his profession who, to his way 
of thinking, lived on nothing but hot milk and tonic- 
water. He liked a glass of wine, did Sir Richard, 
and liked to see others like it, especially pretty 
women. But if old “ Dick of the Pic ” watched Isa¬ 
bel’s glass, a freckled young man with jealous eyes 
watched that fair and lovely face. For where a table 
of lesser lights made a corner with this other, within 
easy earshot sat Leonard Lang-Davies, while oppo¬ 
site him Mr. Save Savour criticized all the wines and 
some of the food. 

But of Mr. Save Savour’s comments Leonard 
heard few, and the publicity agent of Motor Trans¬ 
port relapsed into a sullen and supercilious state 
of boredom. 

But he ventured one remark: 

“ If only old Burrington would stab a waiter with 
a fork this show might be amusing. At least there 
would be a pretty scoop if one managed to get out 
of the door and collar a line before those swine on the 
Gazette. Nothing ever happens at these shows.” 

Leonard agreed. Nothing, he thought, ever did 
happen as it should. He had not seen Isabel for 
some little time, respecting her wishes. But the sight 
of her tonight so near and marvellous was a torch to 
rekindle that blaze he had sought to quench. There 
was about her an animation and light-heartedness 
which he found incompatible with her usual be¬ 
haviour; he was not so sure he liked it. The mood 


294 


RANSOM 


seemed assumed, so well he felt he knew her, and 
old Dick’s glee at her flippancies was a spur to 
jealousy. He decided that for once she was being a 
little silly and living up to Carlo Maude’s criticism 
of her as “ brainless.” 

But not only Leonard and Brockenholt, amongst 
this assembly, were on edge, for Carlo, seven seats 
away, ate his food impatiently and gulped his wine 
as frequently as the waiter attending to that section 
passed by. Sophie Wontner’s. letter had not been 
the best of appetizers to such a function as this. 
She was incomprehensible, was Sophie, and “ wan¬ 
tonly wayward.” He writhed at the failure of his 
plans and drank to her eternal damnation at each 
mouthful of wine. To take so great trouble, work¬ 
ing out details, dovetailing, only to be “ let down ” 
at the last minute. It was enough to make any chap 
feel murder in his blood. A rumour could have been 
started tonight, a hint dropped here and there that 
would set ’em all wondering. Now Brockenholt, 
sitting up there, four seats ahead of him as it were, 
always four units superior in all things — popularity, 
Lingfields. . . . His disgust was not lessened by a 
booming voice, clanging over the four hundred 
heads: 

“ My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen, pray silence 
for Sir Carr Borton.” 

Now for it, old Borton on his feet, smiling genially, 
all eyes towards him, a scrambling preparation for 
silence, and then the old man’s steady voice clear 
and resonant. Carlo grimaced at the waiter. He 
fingered the stem of his glass. Rotten port too; 
cheap and spirity, not a bit the sort of thing to 
provide. He hated port at any time, got you down 


RANSOM 


295 


if you weren’t careful. Old Borton hard at it . . . 

“ It is not often that pioneers meet with instant 
recognition. I am sure all present must share my 
pleasure in having Mr. Brockenholt and Mr. Maude 
with us here tonight.” A rattling that showed appre¬ 
ciation, whisperings, and every one smiling. Svenk 
bending back over his chair and winking at Carlo, 
saying something: 

“ Hey?” 

“ Look cheerful,” Svenk was saying. 

Yes, he’d better look cheerful, though they didn’t 
seem to be taking much notice of him. Like a 
magnet, that man Brockenholt. Look cheerful! 
Pish! Cheerful when the whole bag of tricks was 
up the spout because Sophie ’ud gone potty and the 
port was like bee-food. 

“ I don’t think there is any need for me to 
elaborate by any poor words of mine the valuable 
services rendered by these two gentlemen. I know 
many of us, and many more important than our¬ 
selves, were enabled to carry on when faced with 
extreme difficulties during the last two railway 
strikes. Nor need I tell you that the Ministry of 
Transport is at this moment deciding which of these 
great firms is to be taken under the official wing. 
I am sure we wish both Mr. Brockenholt and Mr. 
Maude success. May the best man win!” Louder 
applause, everybody craning to watch the emotions 

portrayed by the rivals. “ I only wish-” Carlo 

tipped his glass high. Well, what did he wish, the 
woolly old idiot? “ I only wish that these two 
eminent gentlemen could join forces and then both 
would win.” Laughter rippling all over the hall. 
What? More port. All right then. Hadn’t they 



296 


RANSOM 


got anything better than this? “ Join forces.” 
Oh! ha! ha! damn funny! 

“ But I must not keep you long. ...” 

Pish! Well, if Lingfields did get in, what then? 
It wasn’t very likely that Brock would reconsider a 
suggestion of amalgamation. He’d turned him down 
too hard before. He’d have to talk it over with 
Svenk. After all, there was time yet. . . . 

“ I must not keep you long. We have several 
speakers of far greater value than myself. I can¬ 
not, of course, ask either Mr. Brockenholt or Mr. 
Maude to inform you now of their efforts. But 
I would like to suggest ”— a slight wave of the 
hand and a kindly smile beneath the white mous¬ 
tache, an inclination of the head —“ I would like 
to suggest that a lady present might just tell us all 
what it’s like to be a helpmate to a great man.” 

Carlo, his glass half-raised, lowered it. Hallo, 
what’s the idea? Helpmate to a great man? Always 
with the Press this sob-stuff. Couldn’t get away 
from it. Sob-stuff and bee-food. Made you sick. 

Sir Carr Borton, now smiling widely: 

. . . “ Therefore I call upon Mrs. James Brock¬ 
enholt to let us into the secret of success.” 

For a moment the assembly gasped, thought 
rapidly, grinned, and broke into applause. Good 
old Borton! Just like him to spring a surprise on 
them. Where was she? Ah! there. Bless her heart, 
she was getting up now. This was going to be fun. 
The girl had pluck. Things were livening up a bit. 

Brockenholt, in his seat by Mrs. Proutopoli, 
heard that growing murmur of interest and applause 
as if from a great distance. He saw Isabel rise from 
her seat and heard that booming voice: 


RANSOM 297 

“ My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen, pray silence 
for Mrs. James Brockenholt.” 

Mrs. Proutopoli nudged him. He took no notice 
of her. His interest was centered on the pattern of 
the table cloth. Somehow he dared not watch Isabel 
as she stood there. She had said nothing in the car 
on the way here. She must be nervous. My dear, 
he whispered to the damask, God bless you for this. 
They’re welcoming you, Isabel, all looking up and 
towards you. I too, Isabel. I know now what 
effort it costs you to do this; all this for me. When 
we’re home, I’ll tell you then how well I know it, 
everything now. How dreadfully sorry I am, how 
very poor I feel beside you. God bless you for this, 
my dear. 

A strange prayer was that in a strange place. 

Leonard Lang-Davies near her could have cried 
aloud at the pain of her loveliness. Even this, she 
would do for that master of hers; making a cheap 
gesture to heighten his success, sacrificing herself as 
always. 

She began to speak: 

“ My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen ...” 

Four hundred gratified faces were lifted to hers. 
“ Dick of the Pic ” wagged his head. What a 
woman! God, but there weren’t too many of ’em 
about these harum-scarum days, he’d be bound. 
Dashed if some fellows didn’t have the devil’s luck. 

“ I do think it’s very nice of Sir Carr to think 
you’d want to listen to me.” 

A ripple of laughter and voices: 

“ No! No!” “ Of course we do.” 

Sir Richard Penn leaning forward murmuring: 

“ A treat, Mrs. Brockenholt, a regular treat.” 


298 RANSOM 

Mrs. Proutopoli whispering towards Brockenholt’s 
lowered head: 

“ Dear Jim! How splendid! She’s got them all.” 

Isabel continuing, standing very erect, two bright 
spots on either cheek, finger-tips just touching the 
table: 

“ I think Sir Carr wanted me to tell you what 
it’s like to know a great man intimately?” 

Nodding of heads; this was the sort of thing, 
wasn’t it? Making the show lively. Nothing like 
it. These after-dinner speeches. . . . 

“ I don’t think I could possibly tell you that. 
But it’s supposed to have its compensations.” 

Laughter and knowing looks at Brockenholt. 
Pulling his leg, what? Pretty good, eh? 

“ Naughty boy, Jim,” from Mrs. Proutopoli. Sir 
Carr Borton leaning back in his chair, tugging at 
his moustache, chuckling. 

Isabel, still speaking in her clear low voice: 

“ I expect there are always compensations for 
doing what you’re told. I suppose I shall get my 
reward in Heaven.” 

Very good, very good. Bit near the knuckle, 
don’t you know, what? I mean to say . . . still, 
all right, of course! 

“ There are, I see, more gentlemen than ladies 
present, but it is to the women I want to speak. 
I think to them I have only one thing to say: if 
your face is your fortune it may prove a very ill- 
fortune.” 

The assembly, growing embarrassed, shuffled in 
their chairs. 

“ As for Lingfields and Motor Transport, as my 
husband has always told me, I know next to nothing 


RANSOM 


299 


of business, so I can’t tell you much about that, 
can I? Business always seems to me to be a very 
complicated affair. I wonder how any one ever 
knows just what they’re doing.” 

Subdued laughter. This was better. Getting a 
bit — well — over-doing it rather before, what? 

“ I think women should keep out of the rather 
technical side of their husband’s affairs. In every 
way, I mean. It was only this morning that my 
husband told me not to ask questions.” 

Renewed laughter. 

“ I don’t generally ask many. But when he sug¬ 
gested that he should make all his money over to me 
— I expect all the ladies present wish they had so 
generous husbands, don’t they?” 

The four hundred lowered their eyes. Getting a 
bit out of hand, wasn’t she? Pity, when she’d 
started off so well. 

“And that when that was done, I should put 
it all into Motor Transport, which is run, as you 
know, by his dear old friend Mr. Carlo Maude. I 
had to ask him what the idea was?” 

A thunderbolt flung from the storm outside could 
not have brought so terrible a climax. Leonard saw 
Isabel look up, blush crimson at the horrified regard 
of four hundred eyes, turn frightened to Sir Richard. 
He saw Penn’s smile flick suddenly from his face, 
saw Brockenholt swing round with terror and 
amazement, saw old Burrington blow out his cheeks 
and Sir Carr Borton gesture hurriedly. That silence 
pinioned them all, and then some one coughed, faces 
were averted and Isabel sat down suddenly. Sir 
Carr beckoned to the major-domo. Again that boom¬ 
ing voice: 


300 


RANSOM 


“ My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen, pray silence 
for Lord Burrington of Burrington.” 

Burrington began to speak. But what he said 
no one heard. The hall was stricken. What had 
she said? What had that little fool said? What 
only could it mean? Bankruptcy! Treachery! 
Lang-Davies saw three young men with knowing 
glances at one another steal from their seats and 
slip through a side-door. Save Savour flung his 
cigar on to the table. “ The Gazette crowd,” he 
groaned. “ Can you get out, Davies?” 

But Leonard, fast held in this nightmare of dis¬ 
aster, could only watch Lady Carr Borton helping 
Isabel from her seat; Brockenholt, half-rising, only 
to be pulled down by Sir Carr; could only gaze and 
say nothing but, “ Oh, my God, she’s bust him. 
She’s bust him! ” 

Seven seats away Mr. Carlo Maude straightened 
his tie jauntily, and smiled confidently upon the 
assembly. 

He beckoned the waiter. 

“ What about a brandy-and-soda,” he said. 


CHAPTER IX 


At twelve minutes past eleven the Press Annual 
Dinner was at an end. For two hours previously 
all telephone boxes within a quarter of a mile of 
the Connington Hotel, Northumberland Avenue, had 
been engaged. In high-perched Fleet Street offices, 
news-editors with ears to the receivers gabbled 
directions over their shoulders, countermanded whole 
columns of over-seas and continental news, stormed 
at their printers, swept into their special editions. 
A silly woman’s speech had gathered to a roar. 

But down the emptying streets of Knightsbridge, 
Chelsea and the Fulham Road a frantic man in a 
frantic car sped to a house in Fulham Square. 
Arrived there, he ran up the seven steps beneath 
the Doric portico and wrenched at the bell beside 
the mahogany door with the brass network over 
the green glass on its upper panels, and in time a 
decent and impassive manservant opened the door 
and let him in. Rain beat into the servant’s face, 
so that before his eyes he held a shielding hand, 
while with the other he manipulated the lock and 
pressed against the door with his shoulder. The 
rain lashed the door, leapt in spray upon the seven 
steps, along the pavements. The beech-tree in the 
Square bent to the torrent. Round the corner 
opposite the house other footsteps padded, pursuing 
footsteps of patent leather evening shoes, their soles 
soaked pulpy, running over the streaming stones, 
the trouser above the ankle splashed. At the bottom 
of the seven steps the pursuer stopped, the storm 
301 


302 


RANSOM 


encircling him, wrapping his saturated coat around 
his legs. The light sea-green and dull gleaming 
through the upper panels of the door disappeared. 
The house in Fulham Square receded into the 
shadows. Very tall seemed the house, and grim, 
impregnable. For a second its white front sprang 
into existence to a crooked tear of light in the sky. 
The watcher rubbed the rain from his eyes and 
looked aloft. An iron railing topped the balcony 
over the Doric portico. At the detonation of thunder 
almost overhead, he ran to the far side of the road. 
Beneath the dripping leaves of the beech-tree, he 
waited. 

It was not easy to perturb Waller. He was accus¬ 
tomed to various methods of home-comings. Now, 
brushing the rain from the lapels of his coat, he 
replied to his master’s question of, “ Mrs. Brocken- 
holt come in?” calmly: 

“ No, sir. Not that I knows of.” 

He had seen Brockenholt in many moods, but not 
one like this. The violent pealing of the bell had 
jerked him from a drowsy perusal of the evening 
paper in the pantry. Never before had the bell 
clanged so desperately. Never before had his master 
burst into the hall with so strange a look, “ Like as 
if he’s been pursued by goblins,” he told Mrs. Bortle. 
“ Flings his coat all lumped-up on the chest; white 
as his cuffs he was, half-deafens me, he does, yelling, 

‘ Where’s Mrs. Brockenholt?’ ’Ow do I know? 
They goes out together, and then that Lisette hops 
it, and then he comes back like a wounded lion. 
Pretty goings on, indeed.” 

Nevertheless, Waller replied: 


RANSOM 


303 


“ No, sir, not that I knows of.” 

To her room went James Brockenholt. He 
switched the light on. Empty. On the dressing- 
table the brushes heaped neatly on one side; the 
washing-stand stripped of its sponges and little 
bottles. All neat, all empty. He opened each 
drawer, wrenched at the wardrobe. All things, 
there, were folded, put away as if their owner had 
gone for a holiday. He ran downstairs. A fire 
was burning in the grate of the drawing room. 
The Rose du Barry curtains swayed gently to the 
devil’s tattoo of the rain upon the lean windows. 
The room was inviting, a table beside the great 
arm-chair glittered with its burden of decanters and 
silver. The flames crackled and the wind groaned 
at the windows. On the mantlepiece a sweet shy 
face in its silver frame smiled down at him. He 
thought the photographed eyes mocked him. He 
took the frame down and slipped it into his pocket. 
Even so he kept one hand on it. He passed from 
the drawing room to the study. The place was 
just as he had left it, the desk littered with papers, 
the large silver inkstand with its lip cocked back, 
the circle of ink shining like marble. The room 
was chilly and full of draught. Loathing the place 
suddenly he pulled the door to gently. Down in 
the hall Waller waited. 

“ Shall I lock up, sir?” 

“ Not yet, Waller. I’ll lock up, Waller.” 

Echoing footsteps. 

“ Good night, sir.” 

“ Good night.” 

A great silence in the empty house. 

He returned to the drawing room and poured 


304 


RANSOM 


himself out a drink. An evening paper lay upon 
the chair. A headline ran: “ Fate of Lingfields in 
the balance.” Tonight’s paper. Tonight’s. What 
would the headlines blazon this time tomorrow 
night? He crumpled the paper and pushed it on 
to the fire where it roared merrily. Lingfields 
broken, broken himself. He sat down and some¬ 
thing snapped sharply in his pocket. He drew 
out the frame. Across the glass a crack spread 
diagonally from top to bottom, smaller cracks radi¬ 
ating obliterated the face and shoulders, only the 
eyes, freakishly uncovered, mocked softly up at 
him. Now he should be telling those eyes what 
he now could never tell. The fact must be grasped 
and faced. She was gone. Why had he let old 
Carr Borton stop him from following her when she 
had left the hall after that fatal remark? What 
did anything matter compared with her? What had 
anything ever mattered? Broken he was now, Ling¬ 
fields, himself, everything. The Rose du Barry cur¬ 
tains blew into the room, dropped back into their 
long folds. Coal in the grate sang, spurting vivid 
tufts of fire. Gone. All things of hers neat and 
folded, as if she was on holiday. Had she not paid 
for such a release? Paid. That was it. It was all a 
matter of payment. And he had thought to refund 
such coin of hers squandered on him by words and 
tokens that he termed “ making it up.” What worth 
were such words and tokens? How small a weight 
to level the balance of wrongs done to her. Too 
easy, he thought, too easy that way. There can be 
no compromise. I must pay back now that long 
debt overdue. Very clearly he understood — of her 
own free will she would not return and to search her 


RANSOM 


305 


out and to ask such a thing of her would be to forego 
full payment on his part. Perhaps then, one day 
she too would understand, appreciating this harder 
way and though no word of hers would tell him of 
that realization, might not this thing he had sinned 
against bring, in some now hidden manner, a recom¬ 
pense? We are born, he thought, prisoners in a 
shameful house divided against itself and we live 
there till ransom is paid for freedom. All of us 
prisoners, chained and shackled with links of our 
own making. Only when everything is lost, is all 
found. It is very simple. It is very hard. But 
it’s true. I think one should be grateful to lose 
so much, to suffer much. We should be proud of 
tears that rust the links and bring release. We 
pay with tears. Isabel has paid and Sophie, and 
now my turn comes. This is the simple truth that 
is so terrible and certain that we shut our eyes 
to it. We are cowards who dare not face ourselves. 
He shook the broken glass from her photo into 
the grate. I’m going to pay now, he told that 
mean symbol of her: you shall go free, if you wish, 
and I shall never be near you again to hurt you so. 
I have been so blind. But, my dear, because it 
has all been so disastrous, hasn’t it also been mag¬ 
nificently worth while? Eight years ago I put you 
in my heart and now for always you will stay there. 
No one, not even you yourself, can take that image 
away; and often I can go there to remind myself of 
myself. I think we’re both free now. I think you 
as well will think of me like this. Whatever we 
have done this remains. It is worth while paying 
for. My dear, my dear, I am so ashamed, but so 
glad. I am complete, now. 


306 


RANSOM 


He turned in his chair at the sudden clatter of 
the window behind the Rose du Barry curtains. 
Leaning against the grand-piano, the rain dripping 
from his clothes, his freckled face grey in that mel¬ 
low light, stood Leonard Lang-Davies. One hand 
gripped his coat collar, holding it close round his 
throat, the other was behind his back. 

They faced one another in that inviting room, 
while the rain sprang through the open window and 
stained the curtains black. 

“ Ah/’ said Brockenholt softly, “ I seem to recog¬ 
nise you.” 

“ I’ve come,” said Lang-Davies, and his voice 
shook; “ I’ve come to settle up with you, you swine.” 

His right arm moved to his side. His fingers 
were closed over the black smooth sides of an 
automatic pistol. 

He looked round the room uneasily, searching 
for something. 

“ Where is she?” 

And then Brockenholt smiled. 

“ Gone,” he said. 

“ You’re a liar.” That freckled face in its in¬ 
tensity and anger was grotesque. “ I came here 
because I knew what you’d do to her when you 
got back. I’ve known a long time. I’m not afraid 
now. It’s any man’s right. It’s my right. Where 
is she?” 

“I’ll not ask you to explain how you entered 
my house,” Brockenholt said, “ but it’s a good climb 
over the porch. No matter. Aren’t you rather 
impetuous? My wife is not here.” 

“ Where’s she gone?” 

“ I don’t know. To her mother perhaps.” 


RANSOM 


307 


“ Then-” 

“Yes! She said what she did on purpose. She 
is not here now.” 

“ She broke you on purpose.” 

“ Yes, on purpose.” 

The finger round the pistol trembled. And then: 

“ My God, Brockenholt, I’m sorry. I never 

thought- To kick you when you’re down. I 

wouldn’t — still-” 

Brockenholt crossed to him. 

“ Do you know,” he said, “ I could get you put 
in prison for this. You know that? But then 
you’ve never been in prison, have you? You see 
I have. So I wouldn’t do that. I’ve just come out 
myself. You don’t understand? No matter. One 
only gets out of prison by paying. I’m willing 
to pay for my release. There’s a front door down¬ 
stairs. I’ll show you. It’s not even locked yet. 
You might have tried that. You see, I didn’t lock 
it because — well — because I thought she might 
come back. Now I know she won’t. We’d better 
go down, hadn’t we?” 

Without another word they went downstairs. The 
fringe of the storm swept over the house. Behind, 
a stretch of lighter sky was pricked with stars. 

At the door Brockenholt said: 

“ She’ll be down in Marlton, I think. You know 
the house. There’s a window that looks down on 
the road. If you feel you must go to Marlton, 
Davies, don’t hesitate because of me. I shall not go 
down there. One has to pay very fully, I think. 
There is no compromise. ...” 

And with those words in his ears, Leonard Lang- 
Davies ran down the seven steps beneath the Doric 





308 


RANSOM 


portico, ran past the beech-tree in the Square, while 
Brockenholt closed the mahogany door and locked 
it. 

He sat in the drawing room till daylight came, a 
weak pale light out of the east. 

And as the sun rose, painting the wet roofs with 
gold, he turned his face to that poor warmth, and 
seemed to find in that token of the day’s beginning 
a strange comfort; for he told the chimney-pots his 
son had loved: 

“ There is no compromise. But one can always 
begin again. I think we have all paid, haven’t we? 
Isabel and Sophie and I? I am glad I know now. 
I am very glad. It would be terrible to die before 
one knew.” 

The curtains flung wide, that early glory about the 
room. Wheels rumbled past the Square; wagon¬ 
loads of fruit and flowers passed westwards to 
Co vent Garden. The buses were filled with cordu¬ 
royed workmen talking in a desultory fashion. The 
day marched westwards with the crates of flowers. 
In the Square a rat-faced organ-grinder tugged his 
organ out of its shelter in the Mews. As he turned 
into the stream of traffic he whistled. His barrel- 
organ was very old — its tunes were out of date. 
But one of them he liked. He whistled as he went: 

" Oh, Honey, when the silver moon is gleaming . . .” 

He didn’t think much of the words; he liked the 
air. That was why he whistled. He thought the 
words were rather stupid. He was sure they couldn’t 
mean anything. 


The End 





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